THE  LIBRARY  x 
OF    ^ 
THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


CHRISTOPHER 


CHRISTOPHER 

BY 

RICHARD    PRYCE 


««  There  are  open  hours 

When  the  God's  will  sallies  free  ..." 

Emerson. 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

(Cftc  tltocrsibc  press  Cambridge 


COPYRIGHT,    I9II,   BY   RICHARD  PRYCE 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  November  /g// 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  MOTHER 


2041615 


THE   FIRST   BOOK   OF 
•  CHRISTOPHER 


CHRISTOPHER 

BOOK  THE  FIRST 
CHAPTER  I 

WHEN  Christopher  was  born  nothing  particular  happened. 
A  star  may  have  danced,  that  is  doubtful;  that  his  mother 
cried  is  a  fact  beyond  all  dispute.  Nothing  was  quite  ready 
for  him  in  a  world  into  which  he  ushered  himself  somewhat 
unceremoniously.  He  was  expected  in  London,  where 
arrangements  for  his  comfortable  reception  had  been  made 
by  the  excited  ladies  who  were  to  become  his  aunts  — 
rooms  taken  in  convenient,  perhaps  inevitable,  Ebury 
Street,  a  doctor  warned,  a  crinolined  nurse  prepared  at  a 
moment's  notice  to  move  in,  and  await  or  take  up  her 
interesting  duties.  But  an  unaccountable  little  boy,  he 
must  needs  take  every  one  by  surprise  in  mid-ocean.  He 
had  not  even  the  excuse  of  a  storm.  The  sea  had  never  been 
calmer.  He  wanted  to  see  the  world?  It  was  a  beautiful 
world  that  night.  There  was  a  moon  for  lovers  —  a  patch 
of  gold  on  the  sea  for  lovers  to  have  followed  together  in 
exquisite  fancy  to  the  golden  city  whither  it  led.  Lovers 
—  married  lovers,  maybe  —  should  have  stood  side  by  side 
to  see  it,  where  the  lonely  figure  stood,  pathetic  in  its 
weeds,  and  pathetic  for  something  else  which  was  vaguely 
apparent  in  the  moonlight.  It  was  the  call  of  the  beauti- 
ful world?  Christopher  all  his  life  was  to  worship  beauty. 
The  wide  eyes  looking  out  over  the  shining  sea  filled  with 
sudden  tears  —  the  first  outward  expression  of  a  rush  of 
feeling  which  was  temporarily  to  prove  overwhelming. 
Pity,  then?  Sympathy?  Understanding?  Christopher's 


4  CHRISTOPHER 

mother  needed  all  three.  I  think  myself  that  she  called 
him. 

He  was  what  his  mother's  maid,  Trimmer,  pressed  by 
untoward  circumstance  into  all  sorts  of  duties  which  were  to 
have  fallen  to  the  lot  of  the  crinolined  lady  waiting  in 
London,  —  he  was  what  Trimmer  called  a  "  posthumious  " 
child.  The  word  pleased  and  encouraged  her.  She  spoke 
it  frequently  and  with  unction,  dwelling  lingeringly,  for 
euphonious  reasons,  upon  that  syllable  immediately  before 
that  with  which  she  had  embellished  it.  Only  less  important 
than  Christopher  himself  was  Trimmer  that  night.  Trimmer 
indeed  leapt  to  the  occasion  after  the  first  few  moments  of 
natural  dismay,  and,  discovering  unsuspected  deeps  of 
motherly  knowledge,  held  Christopher  in  such  a  way  as 
satisfied  not  only  the  ship's  doctor,  but  the  stewardess, 
many  times  a  mother  herself,  and  even  the  Anglo-Indian 
ladies  whose  "experience"  entitled  them  to  emphatic  if 
kindly  opinions. 

"A  valuable  life,"  said  Trimmer,  manipulating  flannels 
in  workmanlike  manner:  "a  more  than  usually  valuable 
life  —  being  posthumious." 

The  Anglo-Indian  ladies,  from  whom  in  her  weeds  and 
her  sorrow  Christopher's  mother  had  kept  somewhat  apart 
on  the  voyage,  nodded  sympathetically.  Yes,  indeed.  Poor 
young  thing.  It  was  terribly  sad.  With  the  stewardess 
they  pronounced  Christopher  a  Beautiful  Baby  —  a  state- 
ment which,  as  everybody  knows  (everybody  at  least  who 
has  ever  seen  the  new-born  young  of  man),  can  only  have 
been  relatively  true. 

Trimmer,  however,  said  proudly  that  he  had  every  right 
to  be.  They  should  have  seen  his  father.  There  was  a 
beautiful  gentleman  —  cut  off,  too,  in  his  prime,  you  might 
say,  of  life.  It  was  'eart-breaking.  And  look  at  her  poor 
mistress,  his  widow.  There  were  looks  for  you.  It  would 
have  been  surprising  if  the  hero  of  the  moment  had  not 
inherited  his  share  of  good  looks. 

Thus  it  was  that  Christopher  entered  the  world.  Of  his 


CHRISTOPHER  5 

arrival  upon  the  agitated  scene  he  has  naturally  no  know- 
ledge at  first-hand.  Salt  airs  were  the  early  breath  of  his 
little  nostrils,  salt  airs  with  which  were  mingled  all  the 
subtle  fragrances  of  the  ship :  scents  of  tar  and  rope  and  oil 
and  wood,  of  metals  even,  with  many  fainter  odours.  The 
beat  of  the  engines  was  in  his  unrecording  ears,  with 
creakings,  trampings,  flappings,  and  the  pulsing  rush  of 
water.  Trimmer,  bending  over  him  in  adoration,  told  him  a 
dozen  times  a  day  that  he  was  Rocked  in  the  Cradle  of  the 
Deep.  His  mother  had  whispered  it  to  him  with  a  pleased 
smile,  but  when  Trimmer's  "That's  just  what  I  say,  'm," 
told  her  that  Trimmer  had  been  too  quick  for  her,  she 
frowned  a  little,  nor  was  she  heard  to  say  it  again.  She  gave 
it  freely  to  Trimmer  —  without  frowning,  that  is  —  when 
the  repetitions  of  it  promised  to  be  frequent. 

"Rocked,"  sang  Trimmer  in  a  high  soprano,  —  "rocked 
in  the  cradle  of  the  deep,"  and  rocked  him  in  the  cradle 
of  her  capable  arms.  She  smiled  to  him  nodding,  and  at 
herself  shaking  her  head.  To  think,  she  said  to  herself, 
that  she,  Miss  Trimmer,  if  you  please,  should  have  come 
joyfully  to  nursing  —  to  nursing!  she!  —  after  her  expens- 
ive lessons  in  hair-dressing,  too!  She  knew  instinctively 
the  change  which  Christopher's  advent  was  to  make  in  her 
life.  From  the  moment  when  .  .  .  No  matter!  She  only 
knew  that  she  could  n't  stand  aside  now  for  any  one.  What 
she  did  n't  know  she  would  learn,  and  was  ready  for  a  fight 
if  need  be  with  Christopher's  mother.  Her  arms  had  been 
the  first  .  .  .  Could  she  surrender  their  burden  to  any 
other  under  the  sun?  Still,  —  in  calmer  moments,  —  a 
nurse! — when  in  her  initial  advertisement  she  had  been 
able  to  proclaim  herself  not  only  an  expert  in  hair-dressing, 
a  good  packer,  but  even  a  skilful  dressmaker!  A  waste  of 
talents  if  you  considered!  Finally,  however,  she  always 
comforted  herself  with  the  reflection  that  if  she  did  change 
her  vocation  and  calling,  as  she  intended  to  do,  come  what 
might,  at  least  she  had  not  married  a  native  to  become  the 
mother  of  a  speckled  or  piebald  family,  —  which  was  the 


6  CHRISTOPHER 

dire  fate  her  friends  had  prophesied  for  her,  when  affec- 
tion for  her  young  mistress  induced  her,  against  all  advice, 
to  accompany  that  lady  to  India. 

There  was  no  fight.  Christopher's  mother,  convalescent 
in  time  and  with  her  hair  in  two  thick  plaits  —  Trimmer's 
pride !  —  which  hung  one  over  each  shoulder,  was  indeed 
only  too  glad.  The  doctor's  admiration  of  Trimmer  had 
been  unbounded  from  the  first.  Her  resource,  her  presence 
of  mind,  her  surprising  efficiency! 

"What  do  you  want  with  nurses?"  he  said.  "The 
woman  's  a  born  nurse.  I  never  was  more  amazed.  Her 
chignon  — " 

" Is  n't  it  wonderful?"  said  Christopher's  mother.  "  It's 
all  on  her  head,  too,  —  even  the  plait  across  the  top,  — 
which,"  she  added  doubtfully  after  a  moment's  pause,  — 
"which  I  suppose  I  ought  n't  to  allow  her  to  wear." 

"It  hardly  prepared  me." 

"She's  a  genius,"  said  Mrs.  Herrick.  "I  should  never 
persuade  her." 

"Talk  to  her.  Tell  her  I  know  some  one  whom  I  can 
thoroughly  recommend." 

"Do  you?  " 

"Oh,  there's  always  some  one  to  be  found.  She  won't 
like  the  thought  of  parting  with  the  young  gentleman." 

"I'll  sound  her,"  said  Christopher's  mother. 

But  when  it  came  to  the  point  it  was  Trimmer  who 
"sounded  "  Christopher's  mother. 

"  I  'm  sure  I  hope  it  won't  hurt  him,"  said  Trimmer  sud- 
denly out  of  the  silence.  She  was  at  work  in  Mrs.  Her- 
rick's  cabin,  altering  something  of  her  mistress's  —  "  alter- 
ing back  "  (to  be  explicit)  in  her  own  significant  phrase. 
Her  needle  flew  to  and  fro  through  black  materials,  and 
her  ornate  head  bobbed  with  the  movements  of  her  deft 
fingers. 

Mrs.  Herrick,  who  was  occupied  with  her  own  thoughts, 
watched  her  for  some  moments  without  speaking.  She  was 
considering,  indeed,  how  best  to  approach  the  perplex- 


CHRISTOPHER  7 

ing  subject.  The  masterly  composition  of  Trimmer's 
handsome  chignon  to  which  the  doctor  had  alluded,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  exquisite  and  becoming  precision  of  her  own 
two  plaits,  the  reflection  of  which  she  contemplated  from 
time  to  time  in  a  looking-glass  so  placed  that  she  could  see 
herself,  as  for  the  first  time  she  sat  up,  propped  and  stayed 
by  many  pillows,  arrested  again  and  again  the  words  hesi- 
tating on  her  lips.  It  was  preposterous  to  think  that  Trim- 
mer would  consent,  —  capable,  thoughtful  Trimmer,  who 
had  thought  even  of  the  looking-glass !  Preposterous.  She 
should  have  a  nursery  maid  of  course,  —  French  or  Ger- 
man as  the  case  might  be  in  the  interests  of  Christopher's 
baby  education,  —  but  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that 
Trimmer  with  her  gifts  and  qualifications  would  ever  lis- 
ten. She  was  a  Superior  Lady's-Maid.  Lady's-Maid  was 
written  all  over  her. 

"It's  said  to  spoil  their  tempers,"  said  Trimmer.  She 
bent  closer  over  her  sewing  and  bit  a  thread. 

"What  spoils  whose  tempers?"  said  Mrs.  Herrick. 

Trimmer  re-threaded  her  needle  before  answering.  She 
always  sewed  without  making  a  knot  at  the  end  of  her 
cotton.  The  second  stitch  secured  the  first.  Mrs.  Herrick, 
who,  on  pain  of  making  half  a  dozen  such  stitches  futile, 
always  had  to  make  a  knot,  looked  on  interested,  thoughts 
humming  none  the  less  at  the  back  of  her  brain.  There 
was  something  soothing  in  the  rhythmic  passage  of  the 
thread.  Presently  she  really  must  rouse  herself  to  speak 
—  screw  herself  even  to  the  point.  The  doctor  said  she 
was  to  do  nothing  but  rest.  She  was  n't  exactly  tired 
now  that  she  was  up.  It  was  very  pleasant  to  lean  back 
amongst  her  pillows  and  listen  to  the  passing  of  the  thread 
through  the  silk.  There  was  something  that  Trimmer 
paused  now  and  then  to  do  with  the  point  of  the  needle. 
It  was  to  tuck  in  any  rough  edge  or  loose  end.  How  skil- 
fully she  did  it! 

"Babies,"  said  Trimmer  shortly.  "Handing  them  on 
from  one  to  another." 


8  CHRISTOPHER 

Mrs.  Herrick  heard  the  words  when  they  were  some 
moments  old. 

"I  expect  you'll  be  rather  anxious,  *m,"  Trimmer  pro- 
ceeded, without  looking  up.  "I  should  be,  I  know,  if  he 
was  mine.  It 'd  be  a  pity  if  he  fretted.  He's  so  plump." 

Mrs.  Herrick  looked  at  Christopher  —  or  at  where 
Christopher  lay.  He  himself  was  invisible  amid  the  many 
filmy  things  which  covered  him. 

"Perhaps  she'll  be  cross  to  him,  too.  You  never  can  tell 
when  they're  out  of  sight.  I  once  saw  a  nurse  shake  a 
child  in  Kensington  Gardens,  till  it  was  blue  in  the  face. 
Nurses  ought  to  have  numbers  like  cabmen.  If  she  'd  had 
one,  I  'd  have  taken  it,  I  know.  As  it  was,  all  I  could  do 
was  to  give  her  a  look.  A  look,  I  admit,  'm,  I  did  give  her. 
I  've  often  wondered  since  whether  the  poor  child  died  of 
convulsions." 

"Trimmer,  don't,"  implored  Mrs.  Herrick. 

"It'd  be  bound  to  tell  in  the  long  run  —  tell  upon  the 
poor  long-suffering  child,  I  mean.  //  could  n't  tell.  And 
a  lady  where  I  lived  once — " 

"  If  it's  anything  dreadful,  don't  tell  me." 

"It  was  only  a  whipping  she  saw,  'm  —  also  in  Kensing- 
ton Gardens.  A  very  favourite  place  for  such  things.  She 
followed  the  nurse  home  and  reported  her,  but,  would  you 
believe,  'm,  got  no  thanks  for  her  trouble.  It  passes  com- 
pre'ension." 

In  those  days  even  lady's-maidsdropped  an  occasional  h. 

"You  see,  you  never  could  be  quite  sure,  could  you? 
Of  course"  —  Trimmer  shook  up  the  work  in  her  lap  and 
looked  for  her  scissors —  "of  course  I  hope  you'd  be  for- 
tunate and  find  some  one  you  really  felt  you  could  trust. 
But  I  can  quite  understand  how  anxious  it'll  make  you." 

"  I  lie  awake  at  night  thinking  of  it,"  said  Christopher's 
mother.  She  looked  at  Trimmer,  wondering  whereto  all 
this  might  tend.  She  could  n't  be  going  to  propose  that 
she,  Trimmer  .  .  .  ! 

"I  was  thinking,  'm,  how  would  it  be  if  I  — " 


CHRISTOPHER  9 

"You!"  said  Mrs.  Herrick. 

"For  —  for  a  bit,  you  know,  'm.  Just  till  we  could  see 
how  we  got  along." 

"But  could  you — "  began  Mrs.  Herrick,  and  did  not 
mean  to  question  Trimmer's  ability,  but  her  willingness.  A 
deprecating  "Could  you  bring  yourself  to  think  of  such  a 
thing?"  would  more  aptly  have  expressed  her  thought. 

Trimmer  prepared  to  bristle.  "Considering  the  emerg- 
ency," she  said,  "we  have  n't  done  so  badly." 

"Oh,  Trimmer,"  said  Mrs.  Herrick,  "you  've  done  beau- 
tifully. I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  without  you." 

"Of  course,  I  know,"  said  Trimmer,  "that  the  ladies 
have  probably  been  looking  for  somebody  for  you  in  Lon- 
don." 

"They  won't  engage  any  one  till  I  Ve  seen  her.  Trimmer, 
could  you?"  said  Mrs.  Herrick  again.  This  time  she  meant 
"Would  you?" 

"I'm  one  of  a  large  family,"  said  Trimmer,  mollified 
but  still  misunderstanding.  "It  is  n't  as  if  I  had  n't  had 
to  do  with  babies  before  this.  There  was  always  a  baby 
of  some  sort  at  home." 

"I  don't  mean  that,"  cried  Mrs.  Herrick.  "I  meant  — 
you  .  .  .  my  maid,  you  know." 

"Oh,"  said  Trimmer,  "I  could  easily  make  time  to  do 
the  little  I  do  for  you.  There  is  n't  so  very  much,  —  except 
of  course  your  hair,  —  for  you  're  not  like  some  ladies  who 
won't  so  much  as  lift  a  hand  to  help  their  petticoats  over 
their  heads,  'm.  Why,  as  it  is,  you  put  on  your  own  stock- 
ings, 'm,  which  indeed  is  not  right.  I  've  often  and  often 
asked  myself,  'What  am  I  here  for?'  —  it's  not  right,  'm, 
it's  not  indeed."  Trimmer  shook  her  head.  "So  I'm  sure 
we  could  manage.  And  when  I  think  of  his  going  from  me 
to  a  stranger,  and  perhaps  being  shaken  in  Kensington 
Gardens  —  " 

"Oh,  Trimmer,  would  you  .  .  ."  said  Christopher's 
mother. 

Thus  Trimmer  reached  the  parting  of  the  ways  and 


io  CHRISTOPHER 

chose  the  lower  path,  which  was  yet,  maybe,  the  higher,  for 
Christopher.  And  thus  to  the  making  of  Christopher  was 
contributed  Trimmer  with  all  that  Trimmer  represented. 
Was  he  grateful  for  the.  sacrifice?  He  knew  no  more  of  it 
than  of  the  salt  air  in  his  little  nostrils,  the  sounds  of  the 
ship  and  the  sea  in  his  little  ears,  or  the  giant  cradle  itself 
in  which  he  was  said  to  be  rocked.  Many  things  that  he 
knew  not  of  went,  however,  to  his  making. 


CHAPTER  II 

BUT  presently  everything  made  for  wonder. 

Long  before  that,  of  course,  there  came  the  day  —  he 
was  in  Ebury  Street  then  —  when  he  was  seen  and  was 
said  to  "take  notice."  The  saying  may  or  may  not  have 
come  before  the  seeing.  Seraphic  smiles  thenceforward 
broke  over  his  little  face,  for  the  magical  appearing  of 
which  all  sorts  of  causes  were  assigned  by  those  who  ob- 
served them.  Everybody  at  such  moments  knew  quite 
well,  it  seemed,  what  Christopher  was  thinking.  He  was 
thinking  that  he  would  like  your  watch  (to  put  into  his 
mouth,  it  was  probable!)  or  the  lamp  —  for  the  same 
purpose,  perhaps  —  or  the  handle  of  your  umbrella.  Or 
it  was  because  he  knew  you  quite  well  —  or  his  guardian 
angel  had  touched  him  ever  so  lightly  with  the  tip  of  a 
sheltering  wing.  Trimmer,  causes  and  reasons  apart,  said 
that  she,  bless  you,  could  always  make  him  smile.  His 
mother  said  she  could.  His  aunts  said,  No,  they  could.  It 
became  plain  in  time  that  almost  any  one  could,  for  he 
was  a  healthy  and  so  a  happy  little  boy;  but  there  were 
rivalries  notwithstanding.  None  of  these  things  mattered 
to  Christopher.  He  "took  notice, "  it  is  true,  but  he  did  n't 
know  that  he  did  till  many,  many  months  were  past.  Then 
things  and  people  began  to  sort  themselves  out  for  him. 
Very  early  recollections  in  after  years  were  of  the  crepe 
upon  his  mother's  dresses,  of  the  hard  beads  on  the  bosom 
of  a  certain  dress  of  Trimmer's,  which  even  made  a  visible 
impression  upon  his  little  flushed  cheeks  when  he  went  to 
sleep  against  them,  and  notably,  though  considerably  later, 
it  is  to  be  hoped,  in  the  interests  of  his  little  digestion,  of  the 
smell  of  his  first  dried  fig  —  the  smell  of  the  whole  box, 
rather,  from  which  it  was  taken.  The  figs  helped  to  scent 


12  CHRISTOPHER 

the  cupboard  where  they  were  kept.  Other  wonderful 
things  were  kept  there,  too,  each  with  its  own  mysterious 
fragrance,  —  such  as  candles,  soap,  sugar,  tea  in  a  canister, 
with  pictures  of  Chinamen  in  pigtails  upon  it,  jams  in 
labelled  pots,  coffee-berries,  spices;  but  whether  or  not  the 
pleasant  smell  of  the  figs  was  dominant  in  the  medley  of 
agreeable  essences  which  made  up  the  atmosphere  of  the 
delectable  cupboard,  certain  it  is  that  the  smell  of  figs 
thenceforward  had  the  power  of  recalling  all  the  rest  to 
him.  This  cupboard  was  known  as  the  Storeroom  at  Granny 
Oxeter's,  and  Granny  Oxeter  was  known  as  Granny  Oxeter 
to  distinguish  her  from  Christopher's  other  grandmother, 
Grandmamma  Herrick  —  with  whom  it  would  yet  have 
been  impossible  to  confuse  her,  so  abidingly  separate  were 
these  two  good  ladies  the  one  from  the  other.  Even  Christ- 
opher, an  intrepid  little  boy  in  his  early  years,  would  not 
have  dared  to  call  his  paternal  grandmother  "Granny." 
There  was  Granny  Oxeter,  but  there  was  Grandmamma 
Herrick. 

"Which  is  most  my  grandmother?"  was  a  question  put 
by  Christopher  much  later  on  —  when  in  fact  he  was  about 
five  years  old. 

"Darling,  they're  both  your  grandmothers.  What  a 
lucky  little  boy  to  have  two." 

"But  which  is  most?"  persisted  Christopher.  "I  think 
Granny  Oxeter  is." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Christopher's  mother  —  though  she 
went  back  on  this  almost  as  soon  as  it  was  spoken.  God 
forbid  that  she  should  put  her  own  mother  before  the  boy's 
father's.  She  had  a  tender  conscience. 

The  scent  of  the  first  fig  then  at  Granny  Oxeter's  took 
its  important  place  amongst  Christopher's  young  impres- 
sions. In  after  years  he  did  not  always  trace  fleeting  sensa- 
tions to  their  source,  but,  if  he  had  been  able  to  do  so,  he 
would  have  found  that  at  a  certain  dinner  party  some 
thirty  years  later,  the  sudden  interposition  between  him 
and  his  partner  of  a  pair  of  long  earrings,  such  as  it  had  been 


CHRISTOPHER  13 

his  grandmother's  habit  to  wear,  was  directly  attributable 
to  the  presence  of  a  fig  on  his  plate.  His  mind  was  forming 
itself  with  his  body.  Were  the  two  really  separate  things? 
As  he  went  through  the  process  of  a  growing  which 
marked  itself  outwardly  in  the  outspanning  and  casting 
of  young  clothes,  he  was  storing  impressions  as  a  bee 
stores  honey. 

The  nursery  as  well  as  the  storeroom  cupboard  con- 
tributed its  quota.  Everything  contributed ;  night  as  well 
as  day.  There  were  misty  early  things  of  which  one  was 
the  leaning  over  his  cot  of  unfamiliar  faces  —  which  turned, 
upon  solemn  consideration,  into  the  loving  faces  he  knew 
best:  his  mother's,  Trimmer's,  one  and  another  of  the  serv- 
ants', his  adoring  Aunt  Laura's  or  Aunt  Catherine's.  Or 
slumber  compact  of  pleasant  dreams  would  hold  him, 
flushing  his  little  cheeks  for  those  who  saw  —  when,  on 
an  instant,  what?  The  falling  of  something  in  the  nursery 
or  of  a  star  from  heaven  to  crush  him,  and  for  a  moment 
or  an  eternity,  terrors  unspeakable,  things  grown  mon- 
strous confronting  him,  weights  insupportable  holding  him 
down,  distances  immeasurable  between  him  and  succour. 
Help  for  him!  Oh  help,  mercy,  pity  for  a  little  lost  boy!  — 
not  these  words,  of  course,  nor  any  words;  an  inarticulate 
cry,  the  cry  in  the  night.  Then  for  him  the  hurried  bobbing 
of  an  approaching  light  from  the  day  nursery,  where 
Trimmer  sat  reading  or  working,  and,  as  often  as  not,  his 
mother  or  even  one  of  his  aunts. 

"What  is  it,  my  darling?" 

Tears  —  he  himself  was  conscious  of  them  —  on  the 
flushed  cheeks. 

"What's  the  matter,  my  little  boy?  Tell  Mother—" 
or  Trimmer  or  Aunt  Laura  as  the  case  might  be.  "Did 
something  frighten  you?  What  was  it?" 

Blinking,  frightened  eyes,  for  those  who  saw,  and  a 
puckered  forehead.  For  himself,  bewilderment,  effort,  al- 
beit with  comfort. 

"I  —  thought — " 


I4  CHRISTOPHER 

Strain  unimaginable  to  express  what  he  had  thought! 

"What,  my  precious?  Can't  you  tell  me?  There,  it's 
all  right,  my  little  boy.  Don't  try  if  it  bothers  you." 

But  he  had  to  try,  while  Mother  or  Trimmer  or  Aunt 
Laura  essayed  to  follow. 

"Yes.  Oh,  enormous,  was  it?  As  big  as  —  as  the  house? 
Bigger  than  the  house?  As  the  church?  Like  a  great  big 
orange?  and  quite,  quite  near,  and  dreadfully  far  too?  How 
could  that  be?  What  is  it,  my  darling?" 

Mother  or  Trimmer  or  Aunt  Laura  had  not  understood. 
It  was  quite,  quite  near —  "like  when  you  put  your  nose 
against  someone  else's"  (Christopher's  "grammar,"  not 
his  mother's!)  "and  look  into  their  eyes"  —  and  it  was  far 
off,  too.  And  it  was  bigger  than  the  church  —  bigger  than 
anything  Christopher  had  ever  seen,  only  he  could  n't 
think  of  anything  bigger  than  the  church  —  and  heavier 
than  the  world  or  Granny  Oxeter's  great  big  Bible,  which 
only  Granny  Oxeter's  Robert  with  the  gold  buttons  could 
lift.  Why  could  n't  Mother  or  Trimmer  or  Aunt  Laura 
understand? 

But  look,  said  the  comforting  voice,  it  was  quite  gone 
now,  whatever  it  was.  He  was  safe  in  his  cot  with  the  brass 
rails,  and  there  were  the  pictures  of  Cinderella  and  Little 
Red  Riding  Hood  and  the  Three  Bears.  And  loving  arms 
were  round  him  and  the  recollection  of  his  terrors  fading 
and  his  gulping  sobs  ceasing.  Mother  (it  was  his  mother 
on  one  particular  occasion  which  stood  out  somehow  from 
the  rest,  and  not  Trimmer,  who  was  perhaps  at  her  supper 
when  her  mistress  had  stolen  up  to  see  him,  nor  his  Aunt 
Laura  who  for  the  same  purpose  was  always  slipping  away 
from  the  room  downstairs  which  was  known  as  the  Droing- 
room)  —  Mother  would  stay  with  him  till  he  was  asleep 
again.  Yes,  promise!  Till  he  was  quite  asleep.  And  she 
would  sing  to  him.  Yes,  first,  "A  little  ship  was  on  the  sea, 
It  was  a  pretty  sight,"  and  then,  "Lord  Lovel  and  Lady 
Ancebel."  Yes,  the  whole  of  it  —  even  if  he  was  asleep 
before  the  last  verse.  . 


CHRISTOPHER  15 

A  voice  singing  softly  —  singing,  as  it  were,  under  its 
breath  and  for  Christopher  alone  —  was  heard  then  in  the 
night  nursery,  chasing  fears  away,  and  spreading  a  gentle 
calm  that  lapped  him  round  like  tiny  waves  of  the  sea. 

"  '  Oh  that 's  a  long  time,  Lord  Lovel,'  she  said, 
'  To  leave  a  fair  lady  alone  — '" 

The  voice  faltered.  Christopher  felt  the  hand  removed 
from  his  head  for  a  moment. 

"Mummy." 

"Yes,  darling." 

"  I  'm  not  asleep  —  quite." 

The  hand  went  back.  It  held  something  then  which  had 
been  fumbled  for  without  any  actual  break  in  the  singing. 
Christopher  with  eyes  tight  closed  wondered  why.  But 
the  handkerchief  seemed  like  part  of  the  hand  and  he  felt 
quite  safe  and  sighed  contentedly. 

"  '  And  so  it  is,  Lady  Ancebel, 
But  I  must  needs  be  going.'  " 

The  voic'e,  threading  the  verses  on  a  slender  string  of 
melody,  grew  further  and  further  off.  Christopher  heard 
about  the  milk-white  steed,  and  "Adown,  adown,  adown, 
adown,"  and  was  conscious  of  the  approach  of  the  line 
which  to  Mrs.  Herrick  always  seemed  to  have  too  many 
feet.  At  "a  branch  of  sweet-briar,"  he  tried,  with  a  vague 
intention  of  announcing  that  he  was  still  awake,  to  say 
"  Mummy "  once  more,  but  the  word  would  not  come, 
and  the  last  verse  of  all  mingled  itself  with  new  and  happy 
dreams. 

"They  grew  till  they  grew  to  the  top  of  the  church, 

And  when  they  could  grow  no  higher, 

They  grew  into  a  true  lover's  knot, 

And  so  they  were  joined  together." 

The  singer's  head  sank  on  to  the  brass  rail  of  the  cot,  and 
if  Christopher  had  not  then  been  far  away  in  the  land  of 
happy  dreams,  he  must  have  added  another  impression 
to  his  store. 


16  CHRISTOPHER 

Morning,  and  the  terrors  of  the  night  forgotten,  the 
sun  would  pour  in  through  chinks  at  the  nursery  window. 
A  host  of  impressions  then,  a  mind  active  beyond  control. 
Might  he  get  up  now?  He  was  to  be  good  and  go  to  sleep 
again.  Now  might  he  get  up?  Well,  now  might  he? 

"No,  master  Christopher.  Not  yet,  there's  a  dear. 
Your  mamma  won't  be  ready  for  you  for  hours."  Such 
a  drowsy  voice,  Trimmer's  in  the  morning!  "Hours  and 
hours.  Try  to  sleep  a  little  longer." 

Christopher  would  try  —  or  rather  he  would  not  try, 
but  would  lie  still  looking  at  the  pattern  on  the  wall  paper. 
There  were  stiff  flowers  upon  it  and,  at  regular  intervals, 
a  bird  flying  after  a  butterfly.  Christopher  wondered  if 
the  butterfly  was  ever  caught.  It  was  always  at  exactly  the 
same  distance  from  the  bird  —  except  in  one  place,  where 
a  join  in  the  paper  brought  six  butterflies  quite  near  to 
six  birds.  But  even  here  not  one  butterfly  was  caught. 

It  was  often  "quite  light"  in  the  morning  when  Christ- 
opher woke,  because  —  in  what  were  known  as  furnished 
houses  —  curtains  did  not  always  fit  the  windows  exactly, 
but  left  gaps  at  each  side  through  which  the  sun  streamed 
in  wonderful  beams,  in  which  floated  all  sorts  of  things. 
Christopher  could  not  see  the  marvellous  dance  of  the 
motes  from  his  little  bed,  but  he  had  seen  it  and  he  knew 
exactly  what  it  was  like  —  how  they  turned  and  twisted 
and  became  silver  or  gold  for  a  moment  as  the  light  struck 
them,  or  blue  or  red  or  green,  and  how  they  chased  each 
other  or  got  out  of  each  other's  way,  or  rose  or  fell,  and  how, 
if  you  watched  one  as  you  watch  a  snowflake,  it  was  cer- 
tain to  roll  out  of  the  sunbeam  altogether  and  disappear. 

When  would  Trimmer  let  him  get  up?  Out  of  doors 
everything  was  awake.  There  were  always  nice  noises  to 
be  heard  in  the  morning.  The  people  next  door  kept  poul- 
try, and  one  or  another  of  the  hens  was  generally  clucking. 
That  meant  that  she  had  laid  an  egg  for  somebody's  break- 
fast. She  clucked  so  much  sometimes  that  Christopher 
was  quite  sure  she  must  have  laid  two  —  perhaps  more. 


CHRISTOPHER  17 

Perhaps  he  would  have  an  egg  for  his  breakfast  himself. 
He  had  a  whole  egg  now,  and  either  dipped  long  strips  of 
bread-and-butter  into  it,  or  had  it  broken  up  into  a  cup, 
which  was  equally  delicious.  He  could  remember  the  time 
when,  at  grown-up  breakfast  at  Granny  Oxeter's,  he  used 
to  be  given  the  top  of  one  for  a  treat. 

"Can  I  have  the  top  of  your  egg,  Granny  Oxeter?" 

"Darling,  s-s-h,"  from  his  mother  to  him;  and,  to  his 
grandmother,  "You  must  n't  let  him  bother  you." 

Granny  Oxeter  always  let  him  bother  her  —  only  she 
said  he  did  n't  bother  her.  She  was  certainly,  as  he  came 
to  think,  more  his  grandmother  than  Grandmamma  Her- 
rick,  who,  even  when  he  was  quite  good  (and  hardly  fidget- 
ing at  all),  used  somehow  —  by  looking  in  his  direction 
over  her  spectacles,  it  is  probable  —  to  let  it  be  felt  that 
he  did. 

"Christopher,"  Grandmamma  Herrick  would  say, 
"would  you  like  a  penny?" 

"Yes,  please." 

"Then  see  if  you  can  keep  perfectly  still  for  five  minutes. 
Without  opening  your  lips,  remember.  Without  moving 
your  little  finger." 

Well,  you  had  to  find  out  when  the  five  minutes  were  up. 
That  was  why  you  had  to  say  "  Now  is  it  five?  "  and  "  Now 
is  it?"  at  intervals.  Would  it  ever  be?  And  when  at  last 
it  really  was  time  and  you  were  near  the  bursting  point, 
from  holding  your  breath,  perhaps,  in  the  frenzied  effort 
of  keeping  still,  you  were  told  you  had  spoken. 

Oh,  not  really  spoken,  only  asked ! 

And  you  had  moved. 

"But  not  my  little  finger,  only"  —  you  were  near  to 
protestant  tears  then  —  "only  my  foot." 

A  desperately  hardly  earned  penny,  you  see,  when  you 
got  it ;  so  that  once,  greatly  daring,  in  answer  to  his  grand- 
mother's question  Christopher  said  boldly,  "Not  —  not  if 
I  've  got  to  earn  it,  please,"  —  and  most  surprisingly  got  six- 
pence !  His  first  lesson  in  the  efficacy  of  grasping  your  nettle. 


i8  CHRISTOPHER 

Granny  Oxeter's  pennies,  on  the  other  hand,  never  had 
to  be  worked  for.  They  were  new,  moreover  ("  gold  " !) ,  and 
just  given  to  you  for  nothing.  They  came  from  a  little 
knitted  bag  shaped  like  a  jug,  which  lived  in  a  drawer  in 
a  writing-table  in  Granny  Oxeter's  room.  An  enchanting 
ceremony,  the  unearthing  of  the  penny!  First,  Granny 
Oxeter's  keys  had  to  be  found,  and  they  lived  in  a  little 
basket  which  held  letters  and  string.  Then  one  particular 
bunch  had  to  be  chosen  out  of  several  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  a  jingling  that  was  music  to  excited  young  ears. 
Not  that  one,  not  that,  nor  that.  This  —  stay !  no,  those 
were  the  keys  of  her  wardrobe.  Here  we  were.  Here  we 
were  at  last.  Then  one  particular  key  on  that  particular 
bunch.  Christopher's  excitement  could  scarcely  contain 
itself  while  the  key  was  being  fitted  to  the  lock.  Click! 
Then  the  wonderful  thing  of  all :  the  rolling  up  of  the  top 
of  the  desk  which,  disappearing  as  it  did,  seemed  to  be 
swallowed  by  the  desk  itself.  This  part  of  the  proceedings 
had  always  to  be  repeated  for  Christopher's  benefit. 

"Let  me,  Granny  Oxeter,"  and  Granny  Oxeter  always 
"let"  Christopher. 

Then  the  opening  of  the  little  drawer  which  fitted  so 
closely  that,  when  you  closed  it,  it  sent  out  a  little  puff 
of  wind.  Then  the  knitted  jug.  Then  in  your  eager  little 
hands  the  gold  penny.  Christopher  could  remember  the 
day  when  he  was  asked  which  he  would  rather  have,  a 
shilling  or  the  penny,  and  chose  the  penny  for  its  size  and 
its  shining.  Never  were  such  pennies  as  came  from  the 
knitted  jug  at  Granny  Oxeter's. 

Impressions !  Impressions !  Each  one  indelible  and  fit- 
ting into  its  place,  there  to  lie  till  this  or  that  should  call 
for  it  and  turn  it  into  a  memory  or  memories.  Christopher's 
mind  was  itself  a  desk  and  a  storeroom. 

There  were  wonderful  walks.  There  were  shoppings. 
There  were  people  called  visitors,  to  whom,  in  very  early 
doings,  he  was  told  to  give  his  right  hand.  At  Cheltenham, 


CHRISTOPHER  19 

where  Granny  Oxeter  lived,  and  the  first  few  years  of  his 
life  were  spent,  some  of  these  people  came  in  Bath-chairs. 
There  was  a  ritual  for  Bath-chairs.  The  Bath-chairman 
drew  the  chair  up  to  the  doorstep  and  then  turned  the 
"handle"  round,  to  prevent  the  chair  from  running  away. 
After  doing  this  and  receiving  directions  he  rang  the  bell. 
While  he  was  waiting  for  the  door  to  be  opened,  the  visitor 
gave  him  more  directions.  If  the  answer  was, "Not  at  Home," 
an  eager  or  a  disappointed  card-case  came  into  requisition ; 
and  then  the  chairman,  having  turned  the  "handle"  round 
again  and  walked  backwards  for  a  few  steps,  would  resume 
his  natural  position  and  draw  the  Bath-chair  out  of  sight. 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  his  mother  was  at  home  and  the 
visitor  "got  in,"  the  Bath-chairman,  when  the  door  had 
closed  behind  his  employer,  drew  a  pipe  from  his  pocket 
and  seated  himself  on  the  "floor"  of  the  chair,  there  to 
await  her  return. 

The  ritual  was  always  the  same.  Christopher,  an  inter- 
ested little  boy,  would  watch  all  this  when  he  could  from 
behind  the  curtains  of  the  dining-room  window,  or  any 
other  coign  of  vantage. 

He  would  be  sent  for  or  not,  as  the  case  might  be,  to 
give  his  right  hand  and  submit  perhaps  to  being  kissed, 
which  he  hated.  The  soft  warm  smell  of  sealskin  was  inti- 
mately associated  with  visitors. 

Life  was  absorbing.  Everything  that  caught  Christo- 
pher's attention  held  it. 

"Come  along,  Master  Christopher,"  Trimmer  would 
say  a  dozen  times  in  the  course  of  any  walk. 

But  Christopher  had  to  see  more  of  whatever  it  was  that 
enchained  him  —  the  house-painter  plying  his  flat  brush, 
or  the  chairs-to-mend  man  interlacing  his  strips  of  split 
cane  to  a  familiar  pattern,  or  the  knife-grinder  striking 
sparks  from  his  wheel.  Everything  made  for  wonder. 
Like  the  Bath-chairman,  Christopher  often  walked  back- 
wards. 


CHAPTER  III 

PRESENTLY  the  scene  shifted  from  Cheltenham,  from  Eng- 
land even,  and  at  Boulogne  where  things  were  yet  more 
wonderful,  though  there  were  still  Bath-chairs  and  Bath- 
chairmen,  house-painters  and  knife-grinders,  Christopher 
found  himself  storing  French  impressions  for  English. 

The  circumstances  which  led  to  the  change  were  not  at 
the  time  very  clear  to  him.  They  were  associated  in  his 
mind  with  a  period  of  red  eyes  in  the  family.  From  the 
morning  when,  out  of  the  blue,  shot  his  Aunt  Laura  with 
white  lips,  a  pocket  handkerchief,  and  an  open  letter,  to 
blanch  the  face  of  his  mother,  everybody  for  a  time  had  a 
tendency  to  tears.  People  wept  more  readily  in  those  days, 
Christopher  came  to  think,  —  jumped  to  dire  conclusions, 
imagined  the  worst,  permitted  if  indeed  they  did  not  en- 
courage scenes.  Granny  Oxeter,  however,  so  much  he 
gathered  before  he  was  sent  out  of  the  room,  was  "ruined," 
whatever  that  might  mean.  It  drew  a  cry  from  his  mother, 
who,  as  she  clasped  her  hands,  dropped  the  "  Mavor's 
Spelling  "  from  which  (at  "The  Cat  ate  the  Rat")  she  was 
teaching  him  to  read,  "pointing"  as  she  did  so,  with  one 
of  her  knitting-needles.  The  needle  travelled  patiently 
along  the  line  as  Christopher  read  or  palpably  guessed. 

'You're  guessing,  Christopher." 

'No,  I'm  not." 

'Then  what  comes  before  D?" 

'G." 

'Wrong." 

'  M  —  for  mouse." 

'You're  not  attending." 

Christopher  upon  this  occasion  had  only  reversed  the 
order  of  the  letters  once  —  just  reversed  them,  to  the 


CHRISTOPHER  21 

effect  of  making  the  Rat  eat  the  Cat,  which  his  mother, 
with  her  rare  but  not  infrequent  laugh,  was  in  the  act  of 
pointing  out  to  be  impossible,  when  his  Aunt  Laura  had 
burst  in  unannounced. 

"Laura,  dear!"  said  his  mother,  alarmed  as  she  saw  her, 
"Laura,  dear  .  .  ." 

"Look  at  this.  He's  absconded  —  disappeared.  Mr. 
Grindle.  We  're  —  poor  Mamma  's  ruined ! " 

His  mother's  cry,  together  with  the  fall  of  the  "  Mavor," 
sent  Christopher's  heart  to  his  mouth,  where,  however, 
in  the  interest  and  excitement  of  the  moment,  it  did  not 
remain  long.  He  observed  (somehow  to  his  satisfaction) 
that  his  Aunt  Laura's  hat  was  quite  on  one  side  and  that 
she  had  buttoned  her  out-of-door  jacket  up  "wrong"  — 
the  whole  way  up.  A  tidy  little  boy  even  at  a  crisis,  he 
pointed  these  things  out,  but  neither  his  aunt  nor  his 
mother  heeded  him. 

"Ruined!"  said  his  mother. 

"Ruined,"  said  his  Aunt  Laura.  "He's  bolted.  No  one 
knows  where.  It's  been  going  on  for  years,  it  seems. 
They  —  what  a  scoundrel!  Poor  Mamma.  Oh  —  "  she 
broke  off.  "Christopher,  dear!  I  ought  n't  — I —  my  dear, 
I  did  n't  see  you!" 

She  looked  significantly  at  her  sister,  and  applied  herself 
to  her  pocket  handkerchief. 

"Run  away,  darling,"  said  Christopher's  mother. 

Christopher  began  to  beg  to  be  allowed  to  stay.  He 
would  be  quite  quiet  —  not  any  trouble.  He  did  want  to 
know  so  much  who  Mr.  Grindle  was  and  why  he  had  bolted 
But  his  mother  was  firm,  and,  howsoever  reluctantly,  he 
had  to  go.  At  the  door  he  was  called  back  —  at  his  aunt's 
suggestion,  he  fancied  —  to  be  told  not  to  say  anything 
of  what  he  had  heard  to  anybody.  So  he  could  n't  even 
tell  Trimmer.  Impossible  with  a  whirling  brain  to  keep 
absolute  silence.  He  had  at  least  to  ask  what  the  word 
meant. 

"  What  does  it  mean,  Trimmer,  when  some  one  is  ruined  ?  " 


22  CHRISTOPHER 

"Ruined?"  said  Trimmer.   "How  do  you  mean?" 

"When  somebody's  ruined,"  said  Christopher  again. 
How  to  express  it  without  naming  his  grandmother! 
"When  —  when  a  lady  is  ruined." 

Trimmer  straightened  her  back. 

"Good  gracious,  Master  Christopher!  I  can't  think 
where  you  have  heard  such  words." 

That  was  the  beginning  of  the  time  of  red  eyes.  There 
was  a  coming  and  a  going  between  the  two  houses.  There 
were  better  days  and  worse  days.  Things  were  not  as  bad 
as  had  been  feared  at  first.  Things  were  as  bad  as  they 
could  be.  There  were  family  discussions,  from  which,  to 
his  disgust,  Christopher  was  rigorously  excluded.  He  man- 
aged to  hear  a  word  here  and  there  all  the  same.  However 
careful  they  were  to  send  him  out  of  the  room  he  heard 
some  things.  He  was  very  sharp,  you  see.  He  was  also  a 
Little  Pitcher.  Some  one,  called  Poor  Mr.  Aggot,  was  doing 
all  in  his  power  to  save  the  ship.  What  ship?  Poor  Mr. 
Aggot,  as  we  may  guess,  if  Christopher  could  n't,  was  the 
absconding  Mr.  Grindle's  partner.  He,  it  appeared,  had 
been  left  to  bear  the  "brunt  "  of  a  Very  Bad  Business. 

"What's  Brunt?"  asked  Christopher,  half  expecting 
(half  hoping  even)  to  hear  that  it  too  came  under  the  head 
of  Such  Words. 

Trimmer  of  course  was  not  long  kept  in  ignorance  of 
what  it  was  that  had  happened.  She  contributed  willingly 
her  share  of  red  eyes ;  willingly  —  with  alacrity  even.  Mrs. 
Herrick's  fortunes  were  involved  in  those  of  her  mother, 
and  in  the  very  dark  days,  when  least  seemed  likely  to  be 
saved  out  of  the  wreck,  Trimmer  in  the  r61e  of  confidant 
and  adviser  was  comfort  unspeakable. 

"We  shall  all  manage,  'm,  you  '11  see,  and  if  it  was  to  come 
to  one  servant  — " 

"Oh,  Trimmer,"  said  Christopher's  mother. 

"I  would,"  said  Trimmer,  with  streaming  eyes,  "wages 
or  no  wages." 

It  was  not,  however,  as  bad  as  all  that.  It  amounted  to  no 


CHRISTOPHER  23 

more  in  the  end  than  the  giving  up  on  the  part  of  Granny 
Oxeter  of  the  big  house  at  Cheltenham  with  its  expensive 
staff  of  servants,  in  exchange  for  comparative  retirement, 
and  retrenchment  only  more  or  less  positive,  at  Boulogne. 
Brussels  was  mooted,  Bruges  discussed,  Boulogne  chosen. 
Thither  Mrs.  Herrick  followed  her  mother  and  sisters. 

"Afford,"  none  the  less,  was  a  word  which,  in  connection 
with  a  negation,  took  its  place  amongst  household  words  in 
the  vocabularies  of  the  two  families.  Christopher  had  not 
so  many  toys  or  even  (quite)  so  many  pennies,  and  Granny 
Oxeter  had  no  longer  any  Roberts  with  gold  buttons  to 
answer  bells  and  to  lift  the  big  Bible.  These  things  did  not 
matter.  What  "mattered"  was  the  enchantment  of  the 
new  life.  New  sights,  new  sounds,  and  the  sea!  Values 
relatively  far  more  important  in  the  sentimental  education 
of  impressionable  Christopher. 

This  education  proceeded.  It  had  nothing  to  do  with 
lessons,  and  was  indeed  unending.  It  took  in  everything 
that  happened,  everything  there  was  —  more  than  was 
"dreamed  of"  in  his  own  or  any  one  else's  "philosophy." 
Earth  and  sky  and  sea  had  a  part  in  it,  nature  animate  and 
inanimate,  with  good  and  evil  too,  various  kinds  of  food, 
wholesome  and  unwholesome,  a  great  deal  of  pleasure, 
and  something,  it  is  to  be  supposed,  of  pain.  Undecipher- 
able many  of  the  writings  upon  the  page  so  lately  blank 

—  crossed  and  recrossed  as  his  Aunt  Laura's  economical 
letters  to  England. 

Enthralling,  the  new  life!  Christopher  went  from  one 
delight  to  the  next.  Trimmer's  "Come  along,  Master 
Christopher"  pointed  the  crowded  hours.  A  companion 
indulgent  enough  in  other  respects,  she  lacked  the  capacity 
to  loiter.  Christopher  wondered  at  any  one  who  could 
even  want  to  move  on  when  men  were  mending  the  road 

—  an  operation  he  himself  would  have  watched  for  ever. 
Did  n't  grown-up  people  ever  want  to  see  how  things  were 
done?  Were  the  sight  and  sound  of  the  man's  soft  digging 
in  the  sand  with  a  short-handled  tool  which  was  half 


24  CHRISTOPHER 

hammer,  half  pickaxe,  nothing  to  them?  Look!  he  had 
made  the  hole  now  and  was  lifting  the  big  cube  of  stone 
—  which  in  shape  and  size  reminded  Christopher  of  a  loaf 
of  English  household  bread.  He  was  tossing  it  now  to  get 
it  into  position  to  fit  squarely  with  its  fellows  —  had 
thrown  it  deftly  into  the  place  he  had  prepared  for  it,  and, 
with  the  "hammer  end"  of  his  implement,  was  giving  it 
the  ringing  blows  which  were  somehow  as  music  in  Christ- 
opher's ears.  Trimmer  could  withstand  even  this.  When 
she  had  started  to  walk  to  the  sands  or  the  Ramparts  or 
what  the  English  nurses  all  called  the  Petty  Zarb  or  the 
Petty  Zarber,  she  wanted  to  get  there,  though  skies  fell 
(if  it  was  not  in  rain  that  they  fell !)  or  roads  were  mended 
to  distraction!  She  said,  "Come  along,  Master  Christo- 
pher," even  when  floury  half-naked  men  at  the  baker's 
took  in  the  long  split  sweet-smelling  logs  for  the  fires  which 
heated  their  ovens.  The  wood,  one  side  of  it  still  with  its 
bark,  the  other  lined,  splintery,  and  showing  here  and  there 
a  warm  brown  knot  in  the  mellow  grain,  was  thrown  length- 
ways down  through  the  opening  of  the  cellar  door  to  the 
bare  arms  ready  to  receive  it.  Christopher  could  under- 
stand being  told  to  stand  back,  because,  if  he  stood  too 
near  the  edge,  he  would  be  in  danger  of  falling  himself  with 
the  wood  into  the  yawning  cellar,  but  —  not  to  want  to 
see!  It  was  the  same  with  the  iron  "fountains"  in  the 
streets.  Trimmer  never  wanted  to  see  them  splash.  The 
same  with  the  enthralling  French  gutters,  into  which 
smelly  soapy  water  was  always  being  emptied  for  his  de- 
light. He  was  not  encouraged  to  watch  the  empty  claws 
of  a  crab,  or  bits  of  paper,  or  potato-peel,  speeding  on  a 
soapy  flood  down  the  Grande  Rue,  or  the  Rue  des  Vieillards, 
to  the  first  fragrant  sink  gaping  to  receive  them.  In  after 
years  any  sudden  rush  of  water  recalled  to  Christopher 
the  engrossing  gutters  of  Boulogne,  with  the  blue  of  the 
racing  flood,  and  the  look  of  the  gaping  sinks. 

"Faugh ! "  said  English  Trimmer.  "Come  along,  Master 
Christopher." 


CHRISTOPHER  25 

It  was  not  till  many  years  after  that  he  realised  the 
truth,  and  even  then  he  did  not  gauge  it  completely.  Trim- 
mer did  not  see  what  he  saw;  his  mother  did  not,  or  saw 
but  in  part;  most  people  did  not.  It  took  all  his  school 
days  to  teach  him  that.  It  took  his  early  manhood  to  tell 
him  why. 

Is  the  bird-shop  still  on  the  Port  where  the  parrots 
screeched,  and  the  canaries  sang  and  flew  from  perch  to 
wire,  from  wire  to  perch  or  floor  or  swing,  while  the  love- 
birds kissed  and  the  avadavats  huddled  together  twenty 
in  a  row?  Christopher  made  friends  with  a  dog  or  two  in  a 
cage  and  played  with  many  imprisoned  kittens.  It  was 
here  perhaps  that  Trimmer  had  longest  to  wait  on  the 
daily  walk  to  the  sands.  Oh,  do  stop  a  minute,  Trimmer ! 
Well,  well,  well!  Bless  the  boy.  What  was  it  now?  On  a 
memorableday  "  it  "came  to  a  head.  Might  he  have  some- 
thing alive  of  his  own?  A  puppy?  Impossible.  A  bird,  then? 
Come  along,  Master  Christopher.  Might  he?  Why 
might  n't  he?  Might  he?  It  chanced,  for  his  argument, 
that  there  was  an  empty  bird-cage  in  the  furnished  house 
which  his  mother  had  taken.  Just  to  put  into  that.  Why 
might  n't  he?  Why,  after  all,  something  in  Trimmer's 
aspect  seemed  suddenly  to  say,  why,  after  all,  might  n't  he? 
He  might,  then!  It  was  a  comparatively  early  franc  of  his 
treasured  French  money  which  bought  him  his  linnet. 
He  carried  it  home  in  excitement  unspeakable  and  —  of 
all  things !  —  a  paper  bag !  His  heart  misgiving  him  by 
reason  of  the  captive's  crackly  and  rustling  flutterings,  he 
was  ineffably  comforted  to  learn  —  not  only  from  Trim- 
mer at  the  time,  but  also  from  his  all-wise  mother  after- 
wards —  that  to  have  yielded  to  a  self-sacrificing  impulse, 
which  prompted  him  there  and  then  to  let  it  go,  instead  of 
consigning  it  to  the  cage  for  which  it  had  been  bought, 
would  have  availed  the  poor  thing  nothing.  Why?  The 
other  birds  would  only  have  pecked  it  to  pieces.  Why  would 
they?  Neither  Christopher's  mother  nor  Trimmer  could 
tell  him.  Their  answer  was  suspiciously  like,  "Because 


26  CHRISTOPHER 

they  would."  But  Christopher  absolved  was  Christopher 
satisfied.  Contented  Christopher,  then,  with  a  caged  bird 
and  a  clear  conscience!  Contented  Trimmer,  who  maybe 
thought  thus  to  have  drawn  the  fangs  of  the  bird-shop. 
If  Trimmer,  however,  who  upon  her  own  responsibility 
had  sanctioned  a  purchase  the  trouble  and  care  of  which 
must  necessarily  fall  upon  herself,  —  if  Trimmer,  I  say, 
really  had  any  such  hope,  she  did  not  know  little  boys  or 
know  Christopher.  The  bird-shop  not  only  remained  the 
bird-shop,  but  became  the  Bird-Shop  where  Christopher 
had  Bought  his  Linnet. 

The  sun  shone  and  the  breezes  blew  and  the  rain  fell 
upon  these  early  days,  while  everywhere,  to  stir  the  young 
imagination,  was  the  smell  of  the  sea.  It  met  you  in  the 
breeze  that  set  everything  flapping.  Drying  nets,  brown  as 
autumn  leaves,  held  it  in  essence.  Sou'westers  in  a  shop- 
window,  yellow  oilskin  coats,  sea-boots,  or  pulleys,  ropes, 
sail-cloth,  fishing-tackle,  suggested  it  even  in  the  upper 
town.  Beyond  the  Port  were  mysterious  regions  more  sea- 
fraught  still  —  dim  places  comprehensively  known  as  Back 
Streets,  never,  for  fear  of  something  called  Infection,  to  be 
explored,  seldom  entered,  —  never,  except  on  the  dullest 
outskirts,  when,  in  full  summer,  the  sun  on  the  Port  made 
the  shade  of  them  grateful  to  the  discreet  and  unenter- 
prising guardians  of  the  young,  who,  else,  had  kept  them 
rigorously  upon  an  Index  of  their  own  compiling.  Some- 
where in  this  mysterious  region,  and  in  regions  more  mys- 
terious still,  lived  the  fishing  community  —  the  comely 
men  with  ruddy  faces  and  rings  in  their  ears,  the  lithe  and 
buxom  women,  the  clip-clap  of  whose  wooden  shoes  upon 
the  pavement  filled  the  whole  of  the  lower  town  with  un- 
dying music. 

A  little  boy  with  eyes,  ears,  and  nostrils  could  not  be 
dull.  Reading  was  still  without  tears,  and  Mrs.  Herrick's 
knitting-needle  traced  its  appointed  course  daily  across 
the  page  of  "  Mavor,"  with  occasional  excursions  to  those  of 


CHRISTOPHER  27 

a  book  in  a  blue  cover  paradoxically  called  the  His-to-ry 
of  the  Rob-ins  in  Words  of  One  Syl-la-ble,  but  the  time 
so  spent  was  more  grudged  than  at  Cheltenham.  It  was 
difficult  to  "attend"  when  he  knew  that  while  he  wasted 
the  precious  moments  indoors,  the  black-funnelled  London 
boat  was  being  unloaded  in  the  harbour,  where  a  crane  was 
hoisting  great  bales  on  to  the  quay  —  perhaps  even  horses ! 
Oh,  when  it  was  horses!  No  "  Come  along,  Master  Christo- 
pher" would  get  Master  Christopher  then!  Even  superior 
Trimmer  had  to  be  interested.  Down  dipped  the  chain 
paid  out  from  the  "reel"  in  the  little  black  house.  The 
great  hook  was  ad  justed,  gripped  .  .  .  rattle,  rattle,  rattle, 
in  the  little  black  house,  and  the  horse-box  with  its  terri- 
fied occupant  was  rising,  rising,  poised :  a  pause  then ;  click- 
click,  and  the  little  black  house  was  turning  on  its  oiled 
pivot,  while  its  freight,  snorting,  trembling,  panic-stricken, 
swung  out  in  mid-air;  another  pause;  click,  rattle,  rattle, 
rattle,  and  horse-box  and  horse  were  ashore!  Many  a 
remonstrant  "You're  not  attending,  Christopher"  was 
atrributable  to  the  seduction  of  memories  of  such  supreme 
happenings  as  these.  Or  the  cry  of  the  shrimp-sellers  would 
be  heard  under  the  window.  Was  it  possible  to  attend  to 
the  Cat  and  the  Rat  when  Amelie  downstairs,  like  the  Betty 
or  Molly  of  one  of  Wheatley's  "Cries of  London,"  seven 
of  which  surprisingly  hung  in  the  "furnished"  French 
dining-room,  was  perhaps  even  then  going  to  the  door  with 
a  dish  or  a  bowl  in  one  hand  and  money  in  the  other  to  buy? 
For  amongst  the  shrimps  would  be  baby  fish  to  enchant 
him  —  little  plaice  the  size  of  a  five-franc  piece,  little 
crabs  the  size  of  anything  at  all  from  a  pin's  head  to  an 
Albert  biscuit,  tiny  soles,  and  Heaven  knows  what  else  of 
live  wonder  for  that  sal t-and- water  mortuary  known  as 
his  Aquarium.  Or  perhaps  it  was  the  mackerel  cry  which 
came  to  him  from  the  street,  gratefully  to  disturb  him, 
or  the  pleasant  sing-song  cry  of  the  coal,  or  only  maybe 
fugitive  thoughts  of  the  sea  and  the  sun  and  the  quays  and 
the  gutters.^ 


CHAPTER  IV 

WONDERFUL  things  happened  at  Boulogne :  twice  a  year  a 
fair  with  merry-go-rounds,  and  fat  ladies,  and  a  cow  with  an 
arm,  and  a  child  with  four  legs,  and  Tombolas,  and  ginger- 
bread, and  everything  else  of  horror  and  delight  —  of  this 
and  of  these,  later ;  once  a  year  the  Carnival  when  Christ- 
opher himself  was  allowed  to  wear  a  mask  —  to  add  for  all 
time  (and  nothing  else,  perhaps)  the  hot  cardboardy  smell 
of  masks  to  his  enthralling  collection  of  impressions ;  once 
a  year  the  festival  of  Saint  Nicolas,  the  French  Santa  Claus; 
and,  once  for  all,  the  War.  Then  for  a  time  went  everything 
else  to  the  wall,  and  Christopher  was  filled  with  martial 
ardour. 

The  town  was  filled  with  excitement.  Rumour  danced  to 
fact.  It  was  to  be;  it  was  not  to  be.  Was  it  to  be?  It  was; 
and  was  presently  war  in  being.  The  "  Marseillaise  "  was  in 
the  air.  Workmen  sang  it,  clerks,  students,  schoolboys. 
Christopher  sang  it  drumming  on  the  panes  of  the  nursery 
window,  and  discarded  his  most  treasured  toys  for  soldiers. 

"Aux  armes,  citoyens! 
Formez  vos  bataillons! 
Marchons,  marchons — " 

"You'll  break  the  window,  Master  Christopher."  But 
even  Trimmer  hummed  it  and  went  so  far  upon  occasion  as 
to  wrestle  with  the  words.  "  Le  jour  de  glwore  est  arrivay." 
The  "  Marseillaise"  for  "  Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep" ! 

"Gloire,  Trimmer,  not  glwore." 

"Glwah,"  amended  Trimmer.    "Le  jour  de  glwah." 

"It  isn't  quite,"  said  Christopher.  "Can't  you  hear 
the  difference?  Listen  when  I  say  it:  —  gloire." 

But  Trimmer  had  seen  it  spelt. 


CHRISTOPHER  29 

"Well,  it  is  n't  glwore,"  said  Christopher,  "and  it  is  n't 
glaw  either  —  yes,  you  did.  You  said,  Le  jour  de  glaw  (it 
isn't  contradictory  when  you're  teaching  a  person)  — 
and,  besides,  ask  mother." 

Mrs.  Herrick  did  not  sing  it  much.  It  was  a  revolution- 
ary song,  she  said.  The  song  of  the  guillotine  really.  But 
the  melody  held  her  for  all  that.  She  sang  it  less  as  time 
went  on  and  events  took  their  course.  Had  the  day  of 
glory  really  come  —  for  France?  Had  it,  when  presently 
flimsy  "  Depeches"  were  yelled  in  the  streets,  and  the  people 
ran  out  to  buy  news  of  victories  which  had  not  taken  place? 
Would  Christopher's  father  have  sung  it?  There  were 
French  people  even  who  shook  their  heads. 

But  it  was  a  time  for  little  boys  to  feel  martial.  Christ- 
opher longed  for  the  Carnival,  that  he  might  dress  up  as 
a  soldier  —  a  Zouave  for  choice.  As  he  walked  beside  his 
mother  or  Trimmer  on  the  Ramparts  he  defended  Boulogne 
against  the  Prussians.  It  was  the  old  town  of  course  which 
must  be  besieged  — what  else  use  the  Ramparts?  —  and  in 
imagination  (the  Ramparts  being  there  for  nothing  else), 
he  pushed  the  scaling  Prussians  from  their  walls  —  walls  on 
which  unless  held  firmly  by  his  mother's  or  Trimmer's 
hand  he  was  forbidden  even  to  think  of  walking. 

"  If  you  slipped  you  would  be  dashed  to  pieces." 

"How  many  pieces?" 

"A  thousand,"  said  Christopher's  mother. 

So  for  every  Prussian  he  pushed  from  them  there  lay  a 
thousand  pieces  of  Prussian  on  the  sloping  gardens  below. 
Christopher  sang  the  "  Marseillaise,"  but  —  a  tidy  little 
boy,  as  we  know  —  paused  in  his  slaughter. 

Still,  ramparts  were  ramparts  and  there  were  "miles" 
of  them  —  the  whole  of  the  old  town  within ;  the  Cathe- 
dral, streets,  squares.  Defences  and  things  to  defend. 
Mysterious  stone  stairs,  with  shining  iron  rails  worn  to 
slipperiness  by  countless  hands  living  and  dead,  led  to  si- 
lent places  where  quite  a  different  life  was  lived  from  that 
of  the  busy  town  outside.  A  priest  would  pass  with  his 


30  CHRISTOPHER 

book;  many  little  old  women  in  black.  Seclusion,  secrecy, 
mystery,  everywhere.  What  went  on  behind  the  shuttered 
windows  and  the  whitewashed  walls?  A  house  or  two  on 
the  inner  side  was  almost  built  into  the  Ramparts  them- 
selves. There  were  suggestions  of  hidden  gardens.  Lilacs 
in  the  spring  would  peep  over  the  wall.  Some  one  would 
pass  in  or  out  with  a  key.  There  were  monasteries  here  and 
convents.  Nuns  with  moving  lips  sped  silently  through 
sheltered  streets.  There  were  old  men  with  coughs  and 
snuff.  A  sunny  day  would  bring  strange  people  from  strange 
lairs.  The  mystery  of  the  Haute  Ville  assumed  an  added 
glamour  for  the  coming  of  the  war  —  which  (so  Christ- 
opher had  settled)  was  to  threaten  if  not  to  disturb  it.  He 
was  ready  to  fight. 

More  ready  still  when,  to  his  excitement  and  delight, 
soldiers  were  actually  "billeted"  upon  his  very  mother, 
in  the  house  with  the  green  shutters  in  the  Rue  Gil  Bias 
off  the  Grande  Rue. 

It  was  December  then  and  bitterly  cold.  The  Mobiles 
—  young  men  of  all  classes,  countrymen  speaking  the 
patois  of  their  department,  young  men  from  desks  and 
counters,  stables,  factories,  workshops  —  were  drawn  up 
on  the  Esplanade  where  the  fairs  were  held,  and  waited 
their  orders.  In  their  unaccustomed  surroundings  they 
looked  astray,  strange,  alert,  interested,  apprehensive,  in- 
different, according  to  circumstance  and  individual  tem- 
perament; but  all,  as  they  waited  in  a  biting  wind,  looked 
chilled  to  the  blood  or  the  bone.  They  stamped  their  feet 
to  get  warmth  into  them,  or  swung  their  arms,  or  blew  on 
their  fingers;  and  waited.  The  townspeople  came  up  to 
see  them  —  the  householders  who  would  be  called  upon 
to  take  them  in  or  pay  for  their  lodging;  and  they  waited. 
Officials  inspected  them;  and  they  waited.  Those  who  had 
money  bought  food.  Those  who  had  not  went  without ;  all 
waited.  Faces  grew  pinched,  teeth  chattered.  There  were 
men  in  thin  coats ;  in  blouses.  You  were  cold  in  a  thin  coat 
or  a  blouse  that  weather.  It  was  the  time  of  year  when  the 


CHRISTOPHER  31 

heavily  clad  women  in  the  market,  used  to  all  weathers, 
sat  over  little  pans  of  charcoal. 

"Poor  things,"  murmured  Christopher's  mother,  tears 
in  her  gentle  eyes. 

"It  isn't  'ardly  'uman,"  Trimmer  said  —  "keeping 
them  standing  about  in  the  cold.  A  blazing  fire  and  a  good 
hot  cup  of  coffee,  that 's  what  they  want.  War  or  no  war, 
'm,  I've  hardly  patience." 

"  I  wonder  whether  it  would  be  safe,"  said  Christopher's 
mother.  She  had  meant  to  pay  her  men  off,  but  when,  in 
the  comfort  of  her  own  sealskin,  she  saw  them  shiver,  her 
tender  heart  misgave  her. 

Christopher  with  glowing  cheeks  was  running  about 
amongst  them,  and  coming  back  to  his  mother  every 
few  minutes  to  pull  her  sleeve  and  impart  information  to 
her. 

' '  That  one 's  a  postman , "  he  said ,  —  "a  facteur.  I  asked 
him.  He  comes  from  the  country  —  oh,  a  long  way  off,  he 
said;  and  that  one  trying  to  button  his  coat  's  name  is 
Pierre  Something.  Oh,  are  n't  his  hands  red?  I  know  what 
it  feels  like  when  you  can't  button  things  'cause  your  fingers 
bend  the  other  way,  and  then  it 's  all  tingling-wingling  and 
it  does  hurt.  May  Trimmer  do  it  for  him?  She  can  al- 
ways button  mine.  Oh,  do  lend  him  Trimmer." 

The  young  man  caught  Mrs.  Herrick's  eye  and  smiled. 
"  II  est  gentil,  le  p'tit  m'sieur." 

He  was  a  boy.  The  country  had  tanned  him.  The  brown 
of  autumn  woods  was  in  his  hair  and  his  eyes,  something 
of  the  gold  of  cornfields  in  his  skin. 

"Where  do  you  come  from?"  Mrs.  Herrick  asked  him. 

"From  Adeville,  madame."  He  named  his  home.  "My 
father  has  a  farm.  Madame  will  perceive  that  I  drew  the 
unlucky  number." 

"Ah,  you  will  go  back,"  Christopher  heard  his  mother 
say  with  a  catch  in  her  voice,  —  "who  knows,  perhaps 
covered  with  glory." 

"  If  the  good  God  will,  madame." 


32  CHRISTOPHER 

It  was  not,  she  believed,  how  he  would  have  expressed 
himself  at  any  other  time,  nor  at  any  other  would  she  have 
been  moved  to  say,  as  she  heard  herself  saying:  "Your 
mother  is  praying  for  you,  I  know  —  as  I  in  her  case  should 
be  praying  for  my  boy." 

She  put  her  hand  on  Christopher's  head  and  Christopher, 
looking  up,  saw  that  she  was  crying. 

The  day  went  on.  The  men  hung  about  in  groups,  talk- 
ing or  silent.  Now  and  then  one  or  another  would  walk 
away,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  stamp  his  feet  on  the 
hard  ground.  He  would  come  back  to  the  group  from  which 
he  had  moved,  or  join  another,  perhaps,  at  the  outskirts. 
Heads  would  be  turned  enquiringly.  Any  news  ?  No 
news.  Sometimes  a  movement  would  animate  the  whole 
crowd  as  a  breeze  over  a  cornfield  sways  the  whole  of  it  in 
one  direction.  The  patience  was  extraordinary.  Here  and 
there  one  more  independent  than  the  rest  was  heard  to 
complain,  but  for  the  most  part  there  was  a  passive  ac- 
quiescence in  what  was  happening  or  not  happening,  in 
what  the  days  might  or  might  not  bring  forth.  A  la  guerre 
comme  d  la  guerre,  and  no  one  knew  precisely  what  the 
fact  of  war  entailed  or  implied. 

The  spectators  came  and  went.  Granny  Oxeter  in  her 
Bath-chair  was  there  for  a  time  with  Christopher's  Aunt 
Laura ;  and  at  one  moment  or  another  most  of  the  English 
community.  Here  were  Lord  and  Lady  Colsonstown,  re- 
trenchers  from  Ireland;  Mr.  and  Lady  Sophia  Witson, 
abroad  pending  a  perpetual  settlement  of  their  affairs ;  the 
Dowager  Lady  Stoke-Pogis,  rich  at  Boulogne  on  her  joint- 
ure; Admiral  the  Honourable  James  Briscoe,  poor  anywhere 
on  his  pension;  General  Allingham ;  the  Dempseys,  two  rich 
elderly  widows,  sisters-in-law,  who  lived  together  and  "en- 
tertained," and  this  one  and  that  of  the  Things  and  the 
What  's-their-names  to  whom  Christopher  had  to  give 
his  right  hand,  and  whom  he  thought  of  instinctively  and 
comprehensively  as  Visitors.  There  were  others  also  —  a 
Lady  Dorinda  Britton  who  had  a  suite  of  rooms  perman- 


CHRISTOPHER  33 

ently  at  the  big  hotel  in  the  Rue  Blanche  and  did  n't  wish 
to  be  called  upon,  and  a  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  who  could  n't 
be.  All  these  went  up  the  Esplanade  to  look  at  the  Mobiles 
who  were  to  be  billeted  on  the  town. 

Lord  Colsonstown  said  there  was  mismanagement  some- 
where. 

Mr.  Witson,  who  wore  late  whiskers  with  an  early  eye- 
glass, and  all  whose  th's  were  f's  or  v's,  said  he  should  fink 
so  too.  Vere  was  no  doubt  about  vat.  Mrs.  Dempsey  and 
Mrs.  Dempsey  were  in  a  little  flutter  of  excitement.  There 
had  never  in  their  time  been  such  a  thing  heard  of  as  sol- 
diers billeted  on  the  English  residents.  One  Mrs.  Demp- 
sey began  to  say  how  long  that  was,  and  was  only  just 
saved  from  committing  herself  to  dates  by  a  timely  nudge 
from  the  other.  There  were  penalties  attached  to  the  pride 
of  being  a  leader  and  one  of  the  "oldest"  residents. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Christopher's  grandmother,  "it  won't 
hurt  us." 

"Are  you  going  to  take  them  in,"  said  the  Dempseys, 
—  "soldiers?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Granny  Oxeter.  "They  seem  very 
decent  young  fellows." 

Christopher's  heart  leapt. 

"You  will,  too,  won't  you,  mummy?  Oh,  do  say  you  will. 
You  will,  won't  you?" 

Mrs.  Herrick  meant  to  take  hers  in.  It  seemed  that  Lord 
Colsonstown  meant  to  also.  So  did  General  Allingham. 
Lady  Stoke-Pogis  could  n't  because  she  had  nowhere  to 
put  them.  Neither  could  the  Admiral  unless  he  doubled 
them  up  with  —  "Oh,  fie,  fie,"  cried  a  Mrs.  Dempsey.  Mr. 
Witson  and  Lady  Sophia  must  fink  fings  over.  But,  one 
after  another,  the  English  people  followed  Mrs.  Oxeter's 
lead,  and  expressed  their  intention  of  housing  the  men 
apportioned  to  them. 

The  Dempseys,  demurring  on  the  ground  of  propriety, 
were  not  the  last  to  yield.  It  was  n't  as  if  they  were  a 
Family,  they  said.  Still,  the  wind  was  very  cold,  and  the 


34  CHRISTOPHER 

poor  fellows  had  been  waiting  all  day,  and  it  did  seem  hu- 
maner  to  take  them  in  then  and  risk  —  Heaven  knew 
what !  —  than  pay  them  off  to  seek  other  lodgings. 

"I  shall  go  back  now,"  said  Mrs.  Oxeter,  "and  see  that 
there  's  something  hot  for  them,  poor  creatures,  whenever 
they  come.  Come,  Laura.  Tell  him  —  the  Bath-chairman. 
Allez!  Are  you  coming,  dear?  And  Christopher?" 

"  But  I  hope  they  won't  bring  anything  infectious,"  said 
Christopher's  mother. 

What  remained  of  the  day  was  fraught  with  excitement 
for  martial  Christopher.  He  helped  the  maids  to  prepare 
the  room  for  the  coming  guests,  and,  when  there  was 
nothing  more  to  do,  awaited  their  arrival  with  impatience. 
All  his  leaden  soldiers  were  requisitioned  and  a  review 
held  on  the  hearthrug  in  the  Droing-Room.  His  mother 
was  kept  busy  answering  his  questions.  But  when  did  she 
think  they  would  come? 

This,  like  a  thread  of  vivid  colour  in  the  making  of  tapes- 
try, came  up  and  up  again;  or  like  a  recurrent  note  or 
phrase  in  music.  Other  questions  were:  Was  it  certain 
there  would  be  two?  Which  two?  Would  it  be  the  post- 
man-one and  Pierre  Something?  Yes,  but  it  might  be, 
might  n't  it?  How  long  would  they  stop?  Would  they  have 
their  dinners  with  the  servants?  Could  he  have  his  dinner 
with  the  servants,  too?  Then  could  they  have  their  tea  with 
Trimmer  and  himself  in  the  nursery? 

The  hours  passed  and  no  one  came.  It  was  near  Christo- 
pher's bedtime.  In  an  hour  or  so  the  Retraite  would  sound, 
when  even  soldiers  went  to  bed  —  that  ultimate  limit  of 
indulgence  ever  allowed  to  little  boys  at  Boulogne  in  the 
seventies.  With  the  passing  of  drums  and  bugles  and  the 
distant  tramp  of  feet,  all  children  of  Christopher's  age  were 
in  bed,  whence  they  might  hear  it  ere  they  went  to  sleep; 
but  to  sit  up  till  the  soldiers  were  called  into  barracks — that 
was  for  party  nights  only.  To-night,  however,  .  .  .  Christ- 
opher begged. 

"  Perhaps  they  won't  come  to-night  at  all,  and  if  they 


CHRISTOPHER  35 

do  they'll  only  have  their  supper  and  go  to  bed.  You'll 
see  them  in  the  morning." 

It  might  n't  ever  be  morning,  said  Christopher.  The  end 
of  the  world  might  come  in  the  night.  It  might.  It  said 
in  the  Bible  you  could  n't  tell  when  it  would  come.  And 
then  he  would  never  see  them  at  all. 

"You  don't  know  how  much  I  want  to  see  them, 
mother." 

"Why?" 

Christopher  did  n't  seem  sure. 

"  I  want  to  see  if  I  want  to  be  one,"  he  said  at  last. 

Trimmer  was  told  to  come  back  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

"Not  a  minute  more,  then,  Master  Christopher." 

"That  '11  do"  said  Master  Christopher  impatiently. 

"It'll  have  to,"  said  Trimmer,  smiling.  "Not  one  half 
demi-second  more." 

"It  is  n't  that  that  will  do,"  said  Christopher. 

But  they  had  n't  arrived  when  the  quarter  of  an  hour 
was  up.  Christopher  knew  he  would  have  to  go  then. 
When  Trimmer  said  demi-second  in  connection  with  bed- 
time there  was  no  appeal  even  to  his  mother.  He  put  away 
his  leaden  soldiers  with  rather  more  elaborate  tidiness  than 
usual,  to  make  the  process  last  as  long  as  it  might,  but  in 
the  end,  and  like  a  wise  prisoner,  went  quietly. 

His  mother  came  in  to  wish  him  good-night. 

"  If  —  before  I  'm  asleep." 

"You  will  be.  They 've  got  to  have  their  supper.  Think, 
dear,  they've  been  out  in  the  cold  all  day." 

"They've  come,  then?  Oh,  mother,  they've  come!" 

Mrs.  Herrick  acknowledged  that  they  had.  They  had 
arrived  five  minutes  after  he  went  up.  She  had  seen  them 
and  they  were  now  at  their  supper. 

"Just  for  a  minute  "  —  Christopher's  eyes  were  shining. 
"I'll  go  to  sleep  at  once  afterwards." 

Mrs.  Herrick  consulted  Trimmer  with  her  eyelids.  Trim- 
mer after  all  was  a  Brick. 

She  said,  "Yes,  'm,  I  think  so." 


36  CHRISTOPHER 

"You  promise,  Christopher  —  if  they  come  in  just  for  a 
minute  when  they  've  done  their  supper,  you  '11  go  to  sleep 
at  once  afterwards  like  a  good  boy?" 

Christopher  was  ready  to  promise  anything. 

So  it  came  that,  treading  on  tiptoe  in  their  heavy  boots, 
two  young  French  soldiers  came  smiling  shyly  to  see  a 
little  English  boy  in  bed.  One  of  them  was  not  the  post- 
man, but  the  other,  by  everything  wonderful,  was  the 
young  man  from  Adeville,  Pierre  Something. 

"Oh,  I  wanted  it  to  be  you,"  said  Christopher  —  for 
which,  when  it  had  been  translated  to  him  by  Christopher's 
mother,  the  young  soldier,  first  asking  permission,  took 
the  little  boy  in  his  arms  and  kissed  him. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  the  night  were  excursions  and  alarms.  Something  woke 
Amelie  the  cook,  who  started  up  in  bed  and  straightway 
woke  Celestine.  Together  they  sat  up  and  listened.  At 
the  top  of  the  house  in  the  Rue  Gil  Bias  was  a  large  attic 
known  as  the  granary.  Off  this  on  each  side  of  the  stair- 
case were  the  servants'  quarters.  One  room  was  occupied 
by  Amelie  and  Celestine,  a  second  for  the  occasion  (and 
propriety!)  by  Miss  Trimmer,  the  third  by  the  recruits.  It 
was  from  the  third  room  that  there  came  the  disturbing 
sounds  —  whisperings,  movements. 

Amelie  and  C61estine  took  affrighted  counsel  together 
in  the  dark.  Amelie,  see  you,  had  been  sleeping  like  an 
infant  when  of  a  sudden  she  had  jumped  to  waking.  Celes- 
tine would  know  how  she  felt  when  she  heard  the  strange 
men  astir.  She  had  thought  to  expire.  It  was  a  conspiracy, 
not  a  doubt  of  it.  They  would  all  be  assassinated.  She 
had  read  of  such  things  and  knew.  Celestine  wrung  her 
hands  under  the  bedclothes.  What  to  do?  Listen.  That 
was  the  dropping  of  a  boot.  Perhaps  those  assassins  there 
meant  to  brain  them  —  four  defenceless  women  and  a 
little  boy.  The  alarm  ought  to  be  given.  Should  she  put 
her  head  out  of  the  window  and  push  a  cry?  It  might  be 
there  would  be  a  gendarme.  Or  the  neighbours  might  hear. 
There  was  M.  Brideaux  next  door,  but  he  was  no  good, 
that  one.  Another  boot!  Something  ought  to  be  done. 
There  was  no  time  to  lose.  Oh,  why  had  madame  ever 
consented  to  take  them  in,  those  ruffians?  And  madame 
herself  ought  to  be  warned,  and  M'sieu  Christophe,  the 
innocent.  If  without  moving  they  could  only  get  at  Mile. 
Trimere.  What  was  that?  In  spite  of  herself  Celestine 
"pushed"  a  cry. 


38  CHRISTOPHER 

The  striking  of  a  match!  The  two  young  women  held 
their  breath  trembling.  Creakings,  bumpings,  the  sound 
of  a  soft  footfall.  Ah!  The  opening  of  a  door,  a  footfall, 
then  in  the  granary  —  a  hand  on  the  latch  of  their  own 
door.  It  was  now  .  .  .  Heaven  help  them ! 

The  door  was  opened  cautiously,  and  the  light  of  a 
candle  revealed  to  the  affrighted  women  not  murderers, 
but  Trimmer.  She  wore  her  waterproof  cloak  (with  the 
rosette  in  the  middle  of  the  back)  over  her  nightgown, 
and  had  thrust  her  feet  into  slippers.  She  was  plainly  dis- 
turbed, but  not  to  the  point  of  the  Frenchwomen's 
panic. 

"Oh,  Mademoiselle  Trimere!  Mademoiselle  Trim^re! 
Do  you  think  they  kill  us?  Oh,  Mademoiselle  Trimere!" 

"Stuff  and  nonsense,"  said  Trimmer.  "Still  I  can't 
think  what  they're  up  to." 

"They  muredure  us  in  our  slip,"  wailed  the  cook.  "To- 
morrow we  are  no  more." 

That  the  men  were  moving  there  could  be  no  doubt. 
Subdued  sounds,  with  now  and  then  a  louder,  proceeded 
from  the  room  across  the  landing.  Moreover,  Trimmer, 
shading  her  own  light,  had  seen  a  light  under  their  door. 

"Perhaps  I'd  better  speak  to  Mrs.  Herrick,"  she  said. 

"  Don't  lif  us.  Oh,  don't  lif  us.  We  come  too." 

"And  frighten  madame's  life  out  with  your  silliness? 
Stay  where  you  are." 

You  could  not,  however,  enforce  compliance  in  whispers, 
and  it  was  a  procession  of  three  which  tiptoed  down  the 
cracking  stairs  to  the  door  of  Mrs.  Herrick's  room.  Nor 
would  the  shivering  two  stay  outside  the  door. 

Christopher's  mother  woke  with  a  start  to  find  three 
incongruously  dressed  females  standing  by  her  bed.  Trim- 
mer, we  know,  wore  her  resetted  waterproof  with  loop 
sleeves;  Amelie  her  outdoor  coat  and  a  very  short  striped 
petticoat,  and  Celestine  the  quilt  off  her  bed. 

"Trimmer,  for  goodness'  sake,  what's  the  matter?  Is 
any  one  ill?  Master  Christopher  — " 


CHRISTOPHER  39 

"Oh,  madame,  calmez-vous,  je  vous  en  prie.  Escape  we 
instantly." 

"  No,  'm,  nobody  's  ill  —  Be  quiet,  you  two  stupids,  can't 
you!"  (Trimmer,  terrible  in  the  grey  waterproof,  turned 
on  them.)  "Hold  your  tongues  and  behave  like  grown 
women  —  Nobody  's  ill  and  nothing  's  the  matter  that  we 
can  be  sure  of.  ..." 

" Is  it  fire?"  Mrs.  Herrick  sat  up,  sniffing  the  air  for  a 
smell  of  burning.  "The  kitchen  chimney  wanted  sweeping. 
I  knew  it.  I  said  so." 

"No,  no,  'm.   It  is  n't  fire.   It's  the  soldiers." 

"The  soldiers?" 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Herrick  thought  Boulogne  was  in 
the  hands  of  the  Germans. 

Amelie  said,  "They  assassinate  us";  Celestine,  "It  is 
a  conspiracy  —  a  plote." 

"  Teyzy-vous !  Will  you  keep  quiet !  Teyzy-vous,  je  vous 
dee."  She  turned  to  her  mistress.  "They're  moving  about 
in  their  room.  There's  a  light  under  the  door  and  they're 
talking  in  whispers.  Even  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of 
it.  And  these  two  ninnies  are  no  more  good  than  so  many 
caterpillars  "  —  her  frown  was  annihilating  —  "You  see  it 's 
the  middle  of  the  night,  a  quarter  past  three.  I  don't 
know,  I'm  sure — " 

"One  of  them  may  be  ill.  Oh,  Trimmer,  the  one  thing 
I  was  afraid  of  was  infection." 

"  It  sounds  more  like  as  if  they  were  dressing  themselves 
than  infection,"  said  Trimmer.  "  If  it  was  infection  or  any- 
thing of  that  sort,  it  would  n't  sound  like  this.  It'd  be 
more  —  "  She  broke  off. 

"More  what,  Trimmer?" 

Even  in  the  middle  of  the  night  Mrs.  Herrick  felt  whim- 
sically interested  to  learn  what  Trimmer  thought  infection 
would  "sound"  like.  But  Trimmer  had  broken  off,  and 
Christopher  —  curiosity  in  a  little  nightshirt  —  had  added 
himself  to  the  group. 

For  Christopher,  awakened  out  of  sleep,  impressions, 


40  CHRISTOPHER 

indeed,  to  add  to  his  store!  First,  voices  penetrating  his 
slumbers,  coming  to  him  as  across  measureless  distances, 
to  call  him  to  earth.  Earth  suddenly  then  in  the  shape  of 
his  familiar  bed  made  unfamiliar  somehow  by  the  circum- 
stances of  the  strange  moment;  a  groping  for  bearings,  fear 
not  far  off  exactly,  but  adequately  held  in  check  by  curios- 
ity, and  by  the  knowledge,  perhaps,  under  everything  else, 
of  the  position  of  his  room  in  relation  to  succour ;  a  gradual 
realisation  of  the  direction  whence  the  sound  of  the  voices 
proceeded ;  a  sitting  up,  to  become  aware  not  only  of  voices, 
but  of  a  light  in  the  adjoining  room,  and,  when  he  had 
stepped  to  the  ground  and  padded  across  the  floor  in  his 
bare  feet,  the  odd  sight  of  the  odder  group  by  his  mother's 
bed!  Delicious  excitements  for  Christopher.  More  de- 
licious still  when  apprehension  found  its  way  into  them. 
For  it  must  be  admitted  that  there  was  a  moment  in  Mrs. 
Herrick's  room  when  all  held  their  breath,  and  it  was  not 
only  the  shivering  Amelie  and  Celestine  who  were  fright- 
ened. These  stifled  a  Mon  Dieu  apiece,  and  clung  to  each 
other  in  palpitating  silence.  Trimmer  stiffened  and  turned 
her  eyes  on  the  door,  and  Mrs.  Herrick  took  Christopher's 
hand.  Every  one  listened.  Christopher  was  n't  exactly 
frightened.  He  could  n't  be  of  the  soldier  who  had  kissed 
him.  But  what  he  was  was  frightfully  exciting.  A  stealthy 
foot  on  the  stairs  —  two  feet;  four,  to  be  accurate  .  .  . 

Afterwards,  how  they  all  laughed!  Christopher  went 
back  to  bed  with  a  biscuit  and  a  lump  of  sugar  with  eau 
de  Cologne  on  it  (to  prevent  his  catching  cold!).  Amelie 
and  Celestine  giggled  on  and  off  for  the  rest  of  the  night. 
Trimmer  said  Upon  her  Word !  And  Mrs.  Herrick  chuckled 
herself  to  sleep.  Two  young  soldiers,  without  clock  or 
watch,  wake  up  in  the  night  and  think  it  is  time  to  get  up, 
and  a  household  is  thrown  into  panic.  Well,  well,  well. 

But  it  made  for  friendship  all  round.  The  young  soldiers, 
desolated  to  have  alarmed  madame,  reaped  for  their 
blundering  something  not  unlike  affection  in  the  Rue  Gil 


CHRISTOPHER  41 

Bias.  Poor  shy,  conscientious  things,  what  "gentlemen" 
they  were  —  treading  softly  not  to  disturb,  and  disturbing 
everybody!  It  was  somehow  "pathetic."  The  incident 
had  in  it  that  touch  of  nature  which  makes  the  whole 
world  kin.  An  Irishwoman  would  have  said,  "The  crea- 
tures!" throwing  approval  and  pity  and  everything  else 
that  is  benign  and  exclamatory  into  an  expression.  Mrs. 
Herrick  said,  "  Poor  dears!  "  and  meant  nothing  less.  She 
was  easily  touched,  perhaps. 

Christopher  stoutly  declared  that  he  had  not  been  fright- 
ened. His  mother  owned,  with  Trimmer,  that  she  had  not 
known  what  to  think.  Trimmer  added  that  as  it  just 
showed  how  different  everything  looked  by  day,  it  would 
be  a  lesson  to  her  in  the  future. 

"You've  no  need  of  lessons,  Trimmer,"  Mrs.  Herrick 
said.  "You  were  courage  itself." 

"Ah,  but  you  don't  know  what  I  was  like  inside,  *m," 
with  a  deprecating  shake  of  the  head.  "Though  I  'd  have 
died  sooner,"  she  added,  "than  show  anything  to  Am'ly 
and  Cekstine  —  great  sillies!" 

"What  were  you  like  inside,  Trimmer?"  said  Christo- 
pher, who  naturally  wanted  to  know.  "Outside  you  had 
on  your  waterproof,  and  you  did  look  funny." 

"Funnier  than  I  felt,  then,  Master  Christopher.  Which 
is  answering  your  question." 

Amelie  and  Celestine,  however,  had  happily  lost  nothing 
in  their  own  or  each  other's  eyes  by  their  undisguised  trem- 
ors. Christopher,  who  had  the  entree  of  the  kitchen,  found 
them  exquisitely  amused,  and  ready  to  enlarge  upon  the 
terrors  which  had  assailed  them.  Amelie  laughed  till  the 
tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  and  Celestine  threw  her 
apron  over  her  head,  cap  and  all,  and  rocked  herself. 
Never  had  there  been  so  good  a  joke.  Conspirators? 
Assassins?  The  two  innocents  getting  up  and  dressing 
themselves  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  And  Amelie  and 
Celestine,  one  or  other,  had  nearly  opened  the  window, 
look  you,  and  pushed  a  cry.  Au  secours!  Au  secours!  If 


42  CHRISTOPHER 

any  one  had  come!  M.  Brideaux  for  example  in  his  horn 
spectacles?  Or  M.  Artois  from  the  stables  down  the  street? 
Or  Pere  Albert  the  tobacconist,  with  his  Turk's  cap  on  his 
head  and  snuff  about  his  nostrils.  The  thought  of  these 
persons  to  the  rescue  was  too  much  for  the  young  women. 
They  rocked  in  unison. 

"Well,  you  needn't  have  been  so  silly,"  said  Christo- 
pher. 

"Silly!  In  the  middle  of  the  night!  What  would  you? 
Oh,  when  I  think  of  it  — " 

And  off  again,  and  over  again,  and  so  forth  and  so  on. 
Trimmer  could  n't  understand  it. 

"Though  you  can't  help  but  smile,"  she  conceded  in- 
dulgently. 

The  young  soldiers,  it  was  clear,  were  the  heroes  of  an 
adventure  of  which  Amdlie  and  Celestine  were  the  hero- 
ines! With  superior  Trimmer  you  could  not  have  helped 
smiling. 

The  work  of  the  house  went  on  oiled  wheels  meanwhile. 
The  soldiers  waited  upon  the  maids  in  their  spare  time  — 
chopped  wood,  drew  water,  carried  coals.  Fires  were  found 
miraculously  laid,  boots  cleaned,  and  windows.  Pixies  might 
have  had  the  house  under  their  protection.  The  billet  was 
for  three  days,  but  Christopher's  mother  asked  her  guests 
to  stay  on.  Their  delight  was  not  less  patent  than  Christ- 
opher's, to  whom  this  period  was  a  time  of  enchantment. 
He  adored  them,  and  they  him,  as  they  respectfully  wor- 
shipped madame  his  gracious  mother.  He  rode  on  their 
shoulders,  his  sturdy  young  legs  round  their  willing  necks. 
They  rigged  up  a  swing  for  him  from  a  beam  in  the  gran- 
ary ;  swung  him ;  taught  him  gymnastics ;  drilled  him.  They 
were  formidable  rivals  to  the  attractions  of  the  Bird-shop 
on  the  Port  or  even  the  landing  of  horses  from  the  London 
boat.  Saint  Nicolas  came,  and  mysterious  additions  to  the 
contents  of  Christopher's  stocking. 

"Oh,  they've  been  spending  their  money!  They  must 
n't.  Oh,  Trimmer  — "  said  Mrs.  Herrick, 


CHRISTOPHER  43 

"They  were  so  set  on  it,  'm.  They  asked  me  if  I  thought 
you  'd  mind.  I  was  to  smuggle  the  things  in." 

"Of  course,  I  don't  mind.  Only  — " 

"  Yes,  'm.   I  know.   I  had  n't  the  heart  to  refuse  them." 

A  humming-top  with  a  song  like  the  song  of  a  hive,  and 
a  box  of  paints  with  a  sliding  cover,  little  bricks  of  colour  in 
wooden  compartments  in  which  they  rattled,  china  sau- 
cers, brushes,  swelled  the  shifting  collection  of  Christopher's 
cherished  toys!  Nor  would  they  be  thanked.  It  was 
nothing.  It  was  Saint  Nicolas,  moreover,  not  they.  Christ- 
opher hugged  them  for  all  that. 

So,  for  Christopher,  storing  impressions,  the  outstanding 
features  of  the  war  were  not  in  after  years  to  be  connected 
with  the  names  of  Napoleon  III  and  William  of  Prussia, 
of  Marshals  Bazaine  and  MacMahon,  with  Gravelotte, 
Sedan,  Metz,  Strasburg,  Paris,  for  milestones  by  the  way 
to  the  ultimate  cessions  and  indemnities,  but  rather  with 
a  top  and  a  box  of  paints  which  remained  to  him  to  pre- 
sent two  amiable  young  countrymen  who  nearly  threw 
a  household  in  the  middle  of  the  night  into  panic.  Hum- 
ming-tops in  later  years  sang  Alsace  and  Lorraine  to  him 
sadly  for  their  gentle  sakes,  and  paint-boxes  shewed  him 
nursery  colourings  of  pictures  in  the  "  Illustrated  London 
News."  He  was  not  a  soldier. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THEY  went  as  they  came  —  into  the  blue  for  out  of  it. 
There  were  tears  in  the  Rue  Gil  Bias.  Christopher  cried 
frankly — hanging  round  the  neck  of  Pierre  About,  whom 
he  loved  best.  Jean  Poulard  came  a  near  second,  but  Pierre 
from  Adeville  was  first.  Had  he  not  seen  Pierre  before 
even  the  billets  were  settled?  Had  he  not  spoken  to  him 
then  —  in  a  way  introduced  him  to  his  mother?  Besides, 
Jean  Poulard  was  in  love  with  Celestine  (Trimmer  said 
so!),  and  used  to  look  at  her  as  he  swung  Christopher  in 
the  swing  in  the  granary  if,  as  was  not  infrequent,  she 
was  there  to  be  looked  at ;  and  Pierre  was  not  in  love  with 
any  one,  and  so  was  free  to  be  Christopher's  friend.  You 
could  not  help  loving  one  person  more  than  another  — 
whom  you  yet  loved  nearly  as  much.  You  just  did,  and 
there  was  an  end  of  it  and  no  more  to  be  said.  Celestine, 
when  the  swinging  was  in  progress,  pretended  to  be  heart- 
whole  —  leaning  against  the  balustrade  at  the  top  of  the 
granary  stairs,  and  generally  laughing.  Pierre  used  to  pre- 
tend that  Jean  was  jealous  if  she  turned  in  his  direction, 
and  Celestine  would  toss  her  pretty  head.  Jealous,  indeed! 
Jealous!  "II  n'y  a  pas  d'  quoi."  That  meant  that  there 
was  n't  any  what,  if  it  meant  anything.  What  was  what, 
then?  Pierre  seemed  to  know.  Jean  seemed  to  know. 
Trimmer  did  know.  Christopher,  flying  to  the  skylight  in 
one  direction,  and  backwards  to  the  sloping  roof  in  the 
other,  was  always  desperately  interested.  But  Celestine, 
Trimmer  said,  was  a  Sad  Flirt. 

"Flairt?"  said  the  innocent  C61estine,  "Fleurt?  Qu'est 
ce  que  ga  veut  dire?" 

"Oh,  you  know,"  said  Trimmer. 

Sometimes  it  was  Celestine  herself  who  was  swung  — 


CHRISTOPHER  45 

a  screaming  Celestine  making  pictures  —  L'Escarpolette,  for 
example,  with  its  attendant  hazards!  —  and  imploring, 
through  her  little  shrieks  of  laughter,  for  mercy.  Christ- 
opher, inciting  Pierre  or  Jean,  had  none.  Higher!  Higher! 
Even  Trimmer,  there  to  look  after  Christopher  and  per- 
haps to  play  propriety,  had  to  laugh.  The  spirit  of  the 
swing  was  irresistible.  If  only  her  understanding  young 
mistress  could  have  seen  too!  But  that  of  course  would 
have  been  out  of  the  question  .  .  .  though  she  might  hear 

—  and  did.    It  was  a  pity,  however,  for  the  sight  was  ex- 
hilarating, and  C61estine's  laughter  infectious.    How  they 
were  punishing  her!  She  would  laugh  herself  to-the  ground 
if  she  did  not  take  care.  What,  still  higher?  Higher!  She 
had  brought  it  upon  herself. 

And  then  some  one  would  say  it  was  Trimmer's  turn. 
Not  Trimmer !  —  if  she  knew  it.  Not  for  some  one  of  the 
period  called  Joseph ! 

All  over,  and  Pierre  and  Jean  off  to  the  war!  No  wonder 
there  were  tears  after  so  much  laughter.  No  more  gym- 
nastics and  drillings;  no  more  enthralling  accounts  of  life 
on  a  French  farm ;  no  more  personal  contact  with  the  war 

—  for  that  day,  at  least,  Christopher,  resentful,  wanted  it 
gloriously  or  ingloriously  over.    C61estine,  weeping  for  her 
assassin,  her  conspirator,  her  peaceable  Jean  Poulard,  was 
not  more  inconsolable. 

"After  all,"  Trimmer  said,  "there's  nothing  like  a  man 
in  a  house,  'm,  is  there?" 

Mrs.  Herrick  smiled,  but  agreed  with  her. 

It  was  Christopher's  first  experience  of  the  transience 
of  things  generally.  His  mother  had  learnt  her  lesson 
long  since,  and  watched  him  —  thinking  of  one  beside  whom 
she  had  thought  to  watch  him.  To  be  sure  he  had  not  stood 
still.  There  had  been  Cheltenham  where  there  was  now 
Boulogne,  but  he  had  parted  with  no  one  before  to  whom 
he  was  or  he  imagined  himself  to  be  attached.  He  wan- 
dered about  the  house  disconsolately,  grieving,  bored, 
uninterested,  and,  if  it  must  be  admitted  of  him,  rather 


46  CHRISTOPHER 

cross.  Poor  Christopher,  but  oh,  poor  mother  of  Christ- 
opher, who  had  known  Christopher's  father!  There  was 
nothing,  as  Trimmer  had  said,  and  as  Christopher  had 
found  out  for  himself,  like  a  man  in  the  house. 

After  the  going  of  the  soldiers,  life  in  the  Rue  Gil  Bias 
seemed  rather  flat  to  every  one  for  a  time.  Boulogne  was 
not  very  cheerful  just  then,  though  the  times  themselves 
were  exciting.  Dissatisfaction  was  rampant  —  France 
beginning  to  realise  in  earnest  all  that  the  surrenders 
of  the  autumn  had  meant.  News  from  the  front  was  dis- 
credited now.  Disputant  politicians  were  agreed  in  con- 
demning, if  in  nothing  else.  The  nation's  enemy  came  in  for 
scarcely  harder  words  than  its  former  leaders.  It  was 
A  bas  this  one  and  that  long  since,  and  not  as  at  first  the 
Germans  only.  "Monsieur"  Berdenheimer  (Albrecht), 
the  German  book-binder  of  the  Rue  Trois  Sceurs,  who, 
popular  as  he  was,  had  felt  all  along  that  he  could  not  be 
quite  sure  of  his  position,  knew  still  less  what  to  make  of 
it.  It  was  touch  and  go  with  the  Latin  race.  Would  his  win- 
dows be  broken,  after  all?  Resentment  simmered,  threat- 
ening at  any  moment  to  break  into  a  boil.  The  people  who 
had  welcomed  the  Republic  had  looked  to  it  to  reverse  the 
reverses,  and  with  the  Emperor  and  Bazaine  for  scape- 
goats had  turned  hopeful  faces  to  the  future.  Napoleon 
and  his  marshals  remained  to  them  for  execration,  but  were 
prospects  improving?  Business  was  said  to  be  at  a  stand- 
still. The  women  grumbled  in  the  market.  Their  young 
men  had  been  taken,  and  to  what  good?  The  shopkeepers 
grumbled  behind  their  counters  and  across  them.  No  one 
but  felt  the  pinch  of  the  times  —  had  felt  it  since  the  dis- 
asters, but  seemed  now  to  be  feeling  it  increasingly,  and 
with  the  siege  of  Paris  .  .  .  things  were  at  a  pretty  pass 
in  a  world  which  thought  itself  civilised !  Depressed  times, 
my  masters,  —  strange,  depressed,  exciting  times! 

The  more  timid  of  the  English  community  began  now 
to  talk  of  leaving.  No  one  landed.  Mrs.  Oxeter  was  not 


CHRISTOPHER  47 

going  to  budge.  The  Lord  bless  her  soul,  was  not  God  in 
his  heaven  and  the  Folkstone  boat  at  her  very  door?  Mrs. 
Herrick  did  not  mean  to  move  either.  Christopher,  living 
keenly  again  after  the  brief  reaction,  and  taking  impres- 
sions as  a  sponge  sucks  up  water,  was  enjoying  himself. 

So  life  went  on  as  before  the  war,  only  not  quite  as  be- 
fore, for  there  was  always  the  feeling  now,  behind  your 
walks  or  your  lessons  or  your  play,  that  something  might 
happen  —  a  rather  pleasant  feeling,  Christopher  thought. 
Had  not  something  happened,  indeed,  in  the  recent  billet- 
ing of  the  Mobiles  on  the  town?  Something  more  might 
at  any  moment.  It  was  said  presently  that  rats  were  be- 
ing eaten  in  Paris.  Rats!  Think  of  that!  Christopher,  how- 
ever, with  the  catholic  palate  of  youth,  thought  he  would 
rather  like  to  eat  a  rat.  He  was  quite  sure  that  he  would 
like  to  eat  a  mouse.  Why,  you  could  buy  larks  on  a  string 
in  the  market  or  at  any  of  the  poulterers'  shops  (only 
Christopher's  mother  never  did,  because  it  was  cruel  — 
well,  because  larks  sang,  then,  and  "it"  was  a  "sin  and  a 
shame!"),  so  why  should  n't  you  eat  mice,  which,  though 
they  were  smaller,  even  allowing  for  the  lark's  feathers, 
would  of  course  be  equally  delicious  on  strips  of  toast  ? 
The  accounts,  then,  of  the  eating  of  dogs,  cats,  and  rats 
even  did  not  horrify  Christopher  as  they  should  have  hor- 
rified him.  Trimmer,  with  her  outraged  mouth  awry  at 
the  mere  thought  of  such  things  and  her  internal  economy 
said  to  be  "quite  turned,"  could  hardly  eat  her  tea  that 
day. 

"  I  'd  like  a  mouse,"  declared  Christopher  stoutly. 

"To  be  sure,  they  eat  snails  in  some  parts  of  France," 
said  Trimmer  faintly.  "I  don't  think  I  could  sit  at  the 
table  with  one." 

She  sipped  delicately. 

Periwinkles  were  different,  she  held.  They  were  shell- 
fish, like  oysters,  which  were  very  expensive.  Besides,  she 
was  n't  sure  that  she  did  like  periwinkles  so  very  much. 
Shrimps,  now  — 


48  CHRISTOPHER 

Shrimps  ate  anything,  said  Christopher  —  particularly 
corpses. 

He  was  not  to  be  horrified.  But  there  were  other  stories 
—  of  starvation  and  sickness  and  cold  —  which  impressed 
his  young  imagination  deeply.  It  was  "lucky,"  he  said, 
that  Pierre  and  Jean  were  not  in  Paris. 

He  went  back  to  the  sea  and  the  quays  and  the  gutters. 
There  were  other  things  in  life  besides  the  war,  after  all. 
Had  he  only  thought  he  was  martial?  His  mother,  watch- 
ing him,  wondered.  She  did  not  believe,  somehow,  that, 
soldier's  son  as  he  was,  he  was  going  to  be  a  soldier.  Nothing 
definitely  showed  yet.  Movements  as  of  straws,  perhaps. 
Did  you  need  more,  though,  to  tell  you  the  wind's  direc- 
tion? Chaff  would  do  that  —  dust,  the  lighter  sweepings 
of  the  road.  When  she  saw,  then,  that  he  was  philosophical 
rather  than  combative  in  the  small  things  of  every  day, 
and  that  while  other  boys  for  their  excitement  must  be 
up  and  doing,  he  for  his  had  not  to  do  more  than  use  his 
eyes  and  his  ears  and  his  nostrils,  she  drew  her  conclusions. 
By  degrees,  moreover,  she  began  at  this  time  to  be  dimly 
conscious  of  some  inner  life  upon  which  her  strange  little 
son  seemed  to  draw  for  his  eager  sustenance,  and  which  he 
fed  in  turn  with  the  harvest  of  these  garnerings. 

Oh,  the  sea  and  the  quays  and  the  gutters! 

Then  quite  suddenly  upon  a  day  one  traveller  returned. 
A  ring  at  the  back  door  revealed  to  the  answering  Celestine 
not  her  Jean,  it  was  true,  but  his  comrade.  The  excited 
young  woman  summoned  Amelie  and  Trimmer,  and  the 
three  of  them,  rejoicing  to  see  him  again  and  noticing  no- 
thing at  first,  led  him  to  the  kitchen.  His  last  letter  had 
miscarried,  or  his  correspondents  in  the  Rue  Gil  Bias  would 
have  known  that  some  of  the  Mobiles  were  to  be  quartered 
once  more  in  the  town.  Orders  and  counter-orders  had  ruled 
their  disposal,  and  they  had  seen  no  fighting.  They  were 
not  billeted  this  time  upon  householders,  but,  the  barracks 
being  full,  were  sleeping  (on  straw)  in  such  shelter  only  as 
the  Custom  House  afforded. 


CHRISTOPHER  49 

Mrs.  Herrick  and  Christopher  were  out  when  he  came. 
It  was  Granny  Oxeter's  birthday,  and  they  were  spending 
the  afternoon  and  evening  with  her  at  her  house  in  the 
Place  Moliere.  Christopher  wore  his  best  suit  and  was  to 
stay  up  for  late  dinner  at  which  there  was  to  be  champagne, 
a  fascinating  wine  which  in  those  days  bubbled  up  like  a 
fountain  from  the  depths  of  the  stem  of  your  glass.  But 
the  day  and  the  party  were  fixed  in  his  memory  as  much 
for  that  which  did  not  happen  as  for  that  which  did.  For, 
on  the  one  by  reason  of  the  other,  he  missed  his  friend's 
visit  —  for  which,  as  events  turned  out,  his  mother,  at 
least,  could  never  be  sufficiently  thankful.  This  —  for  he 
was  never  to  see  the  young  soldier  again  —  must  be  counted 
for  that  which  did  not  happen.  That  which  did  happen 
was  that  on  this  day  he  heard  for  the  first  time  of  the  exist- 
ence of  Cora  St.  Jemison. 

Pierre  About,  he  learned  afterwards,  came  to  the  Rue 
Gil  Bias  at  six.  At  that  hour  Christopher  was  saying  good- 
bye to  the  last  of  the  visitors  —  the  people  in  bonnets  who 
had  brought  his  grandmother  flowers  and  knitted  shawls 
and  wished  her  many  happy  returns  of  the  day.  Then  his 
grandmother  and  his  mother  and  his  two  aunts  drew  their 
chairs  round  the  fire  for  one  of  those  enthralling  grown-up 
conversations  which  he  never  tired  of  listening  to.  Experi- 
ence had  taught  him  not  to  ask  questions  and,  the  better 
to  listen,  always  to  occupy  himself  at  such  moments  with 
a  book.  Questions  only  brought  such  answers  as  "Never 
mind,  dear,"  or  "You  would  n't  understand,"  or  "You'll 
know  when  you  're  older, "  if  not,  indeed,  —  from  his  Aunt 
Laura,  who  none  the  less  adored  him,  —  "Little  boys  should 
be  seen  and  not  heard";  the  unfairest  answer,  surely,  that 
ever  was  framed  for  the  silencing  of  the  acquisitive  young. 
A  book  was  covert  —  ambush  even.  Granny  Oxeter's 
big  Bible  with  the  pictures  —  and  what  Christopher  called 
the  Hypocrapha  —  was  shelter  from  under  which  Christo- 
pher, unperceived,  assisted  at  many  a  confabulation  not 
meant  for  his  ears.  It  was  thus  that  he  had  heard  of  the 


50  CHRISTOPHER 

Mrs.  St.  Jemison  who  could  n't  be  called  upon,  and  thus 
that  he  now  heard  of  Cora. 

In  the  Rue  Gil  Bias,  meanwhile,  time  passed  oddly. 
Pierre  sat  on  and  on  in  the  kitchen.  He  was  heavy  and  un- 
like himself  —  so  unlike  the  young  soldier  who  a  short  time 
back  had  helped  on  the  one  hand  to  scare  the  household 
and  on  the  other  to  make  the  swing  of  laughter  and  love  in 
the  granary,  that  the  servants  knew  not  what  to  make  of 
him.  He  talked  of  the  p'tit  m'sieur,  and  Christopher  after- 
wards had  that  for  his  comfort.  He  drank  coffee  feverishly, 
but  could  not  eat.  He  sat  with  his  head  in  his  hands.  It 
was  an  effort  to  him  to  give  what  news  he  had  to  tell  of 
his  comrade.  Jean  Poulard  was  here  or  was  there,  he  was 
not  sure;  but  madame  and  the  p'tit  m'sieur,  would  they 
soon  be  in?  Should  he  see  them?  It  was  a  parrot  cry.  The 
good  madame  and  the  p'tit  m'sieur  —  and  they  had  ex- 
plained to  him  so  often. 

Celestine,  who  had  welcomed  him  in  her  excitement  al- 
most as  Rhoda  of  old  the  Peter  of  all,  when  in  hers  she 
left  him  standing  at  the  gate,  exchanged  anxious  glances 
with  Amelie  and  Trimmer.  The  man  was  ill,  not  a  doubt 
of  it.  At  eight  o'clock  Trimmer,  really  anxious,  took  action 
and  sent  for  a  doctor.  By  ten  poor  Pierre  was  in  hos- 
pital. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  Mrs.  Herrick  and  Christopher 
got  home.  Christopher  happily  was  sleepy,  or  he  might 
have  wondered  inconveniently  why  Trimmer  opened  the 
door  to  them,  and  why  there  was  such  a  smell  of  sulphur 
in  the  house.  There  was  something,  moreover,  in  Trimmer's 
aspect  and  demeanour  which  ordinarily  would  not  have 
escaped  him.  He  would  have  seen  for  one  thing  that  she 
was  wearing  her  best  dress,  if,  in  the  sudden  light  of  the 
lamp  after  the  darkness  of  the  hired  fly,  he  had  not  been 
blinking  and  winking,  his  knuckles  to  his  eyes;  nor  prob- 
ably would  he  have  missed  a  signal  which  she  made  to  his 
mother. 

"You're  tired  out,  darling,"  his  mother  said  to  him 


CHRISTOPHER  51 

quickly.  "Go  on  up  and  begin  to  undress.  We  shall  be 
up  after  you  in  a  moment." 

Christopher  made  for  Trimmer,  but  she  receded  — oddly, 
he  would  have  thought  if  he  had  been  capable  of  thinking. 

"  Nonsense,  Master  Christopher,  you  must  walk  up  your- 
self." 

"  Do  as  I  tell  you,  darling." 

Christopher  mounted  the  stairs  laboriously,  a  step  at  a 
time. 

"There  won't  be  a  light,"  he  said  sulkily  over  his 
shoulder. 

"Yes,  there  will,"  said  Trimmer.  "I  left  everything 
ready." 

Christopher  got  as  far  as  his  room,  where  presently  his 
mother  found  him  fast  asleep  on  the  bed  with  his  clothes 
on. 

"There's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of,  'm,  and  we've  all  had 
'ot  baths  and  I  Ve  changed  to  the  skin,  but  I  thought  per- 
haps if  you  '11  put  him  to  bed  for  to-night  I  'd  better  not  go 
near  him,  being  a  child  —  Master  Christopher,  I  mean.  You 
see  the  poor  young  man  sat  here  the  best  part  of  two 
hours  or  more,  and  all  we  could  get  out  of  him  was  when 
should  he  see  you  and  the  young  gentleman.  It  was  lucky 
I  thought  of  the  doctor,  for  I  'm  sure  I  did  n't  know  what 
to  do,  and  when  he  said  smallpox  —  petty  verole,  as  they 
call  it  —  I  said  sulphur  and  hot  baths,  and  we've  had  every 
window  in  the  place  open.  Still,  it 's  best  to  be  on  the  safe 
side." 

"  His  poor  mother,"  said  Christopher's.  But  what  Christ- 
opher, waking  suddenly  out  of  sleep,  wanted  to  know  was: 
what  was  meant  by  "Custody  of  the  Child." 

"Custody  of  the  Child?"  said  Christopher's  mother. 
"You've  been  dreaming,  darling." 

"No,  I  have  n't." 

"But  Custody — " 

"My  collar  undoes  first.   Granny  said  it." 

"Said  what?" 


5a  CHRISTOPHER 

"Said  Mr.  St.  Jemison  had  it,  and  now  he  was  ill,  and  if 
he  died  and  there  was  nowhere  else  for  Cora  to  go,  she 
supposed  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  would  have  to." 

"Oh!"  Mrs.  Herrick's  forehead  was  puckered.  "Have 
to  what?"  she  said  after  a  pause. 

"Have  to  have  it." 

"Never  mind  Mrs.  St.  Jemison,  dear.  It's  getting  very 
late.  Besides"  —  even  mothers,  as  Christopher  came  to 
know  when  he  was  older,  could  use  words  inconsequently ! 
—  "besides,  I  did  n't  know  you  were  listening." 

So  Pierre  About  went  out  of  Christopher's  life  (for  he 
died,  poor  fellow,  not  many  weeks  later),  and,  indirectly, 
on  the  same  day,  Cora  St.  Jemison,  a  mere  name,  but  a 
name,  it  seemed,  not  to  be  spoken,  came  into  it. 

Christopher  long  remembered  that  particular  birthday 
of  the  birthdays  of  his  grandmother. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IF  there  was  presently  one  person  more  than  another  in 
whom  Christopher  was  interested,  it  was  the  beautiful 
lady  who  could  not  be  called  upon  by  grown-up  people 
nor  talked  about  before  little  boys.  He  knew  her  very  well 
by  sight.  Her  chignon  was  different  from  any  body  else's  — 
different  even  from  his  beautiful  mother's,  whose,  in  turn, 
was,  oh,  so  very  different  from  his  Aunt  Laura's.  His  Aunt 
Laura's,  and  most  other  people's,  contained  what  Christ- 
opher called  stuffing,  and  Trimmer  "frizettes,"  which  gen- 
erally showed  through.  No  stuffing  showed  through  his 
mother's  thick  plaits  nor  Mrs.  St.  Jemison's  —  nor  Trim- 
mer's, for  that  matter,  which,  as  we  know  if  we  have  not 
forgotten,  were  quite  beyond  her  station  and  permitted  only 
by  her  gentle  mistress's  indulgence.  But  while  Trimmer's 
locks  were  brown,  and  his  mother's  brown,  too,  with  a  cop- 
pery tinge  in  the  light,  Mrs.  St.  Jemison's  were  of  an  in- 
credible gold,  more  beautiful  than  anything  Christopher 
had  ever  seen.  You  could  see  Mrs.  St.  Jemison's  tresses 
from  afar.  They  sauntered  rather  superciliously  —  discon- 
tentedly as  often  as  not  —  under  a  mauve  parasol  with  a 
folding  stick  down  the  Grande  Rue,  or  along  the  Port,  or 
down  the  planks  laid  on  the  softness  of  the  upper 
"Sands."  She  would  sit  with  a  book  in  a  beehive  chair,  or 
in  one  of  the  tents  which  you  could  hire,  and  look  contem- 
platively or  amusedly  at  the  people  who  could  not  call 
upon  her.  Sometimes  a  very  good-looking  young  English- 
man would  be  with  her,  but  she  did  n't  seem  to  know  any- 
body else.  She  always  looked  happy  for  the  first  few  days 
when  he  was  there,  and  the  people  who  could  n't  call,  some 
of  whom  knew  him,  turned  their  heads  away  more  than 
ever  and  said  It  was  Very  Sad,  and  Such  a  Promising  Young 


54  CHRISTOPHER 

Fellow,  and  something  about  a  Wretched  Entanglement, 
and  a  great  deal  about  His  Poor  Father.  Christopher 
knew  they  said  these  things,  for,  though  his  mother  always 
fell  into  silence  when  Mrs.  St.  Jemison's  name  was  men- 
tioned, and,  if  Christopher  had  known  it,  had  started  at  the 
first  sight  of  the  young  Englishman  and  turned  precipi- 
tately into  a  shop  as  if  to  hide,  his  aunts  were  not  so  reti- 
cent, and  Christopher,  when  he  was  out  with  either  of  them, 
often  found  himself  the  listening  one  of  a  talking  group. 
But  the  young  Englishman,  who,  by  the  way,  could  always 
make  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  laugh,  did  n't  look  a  bit  Entangled, 
Christopher  thought,  and  he  certainly  did  not  look  wretched. 
He  looked  on  the  contrary  very  careless  and  light-hearted 
and  sometimes  rather  cross.  It  was  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  then 
who  looked  wretched  if  any  one  did,  —  only  it  was  more 
aggrieved,  if  Christopher  had  known  it,  than  wretched,  — 
and  it  was  generally  after  that  that  the  Englishman  would 
not  be  there,  and  Christopher  would  know  from  what  the 
groups  said  that  he  had  Gone  Back  to  his  Relations. 
Christopher  hated  the  groups. 

He  tackled  Trimmer.  Why  could  n't  ugly  people  call? 
Because  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  had  run  away  from  her  husband, 
if  he  must  know,  and  at  the  last  as  at  the  first,  according 
to  Trimmer,  that  is,  as  according  to  any  one  else,  Mrs.  St. 
Jemison  was  not  a  Nice  Woman.  This  Christopher  dis- 
puted. He  would  pit  his  conviction  against  the  opinion  of 
any  group.  Oh,  but  she  was,  he  maintained  —  nicer  than 
any  one  in  Boulogne  except  his  mother.  To  that  Trimmer, 
up  in  arms,  said  that  he  was  n't  to  name  her  in  the  same 
breath  with  his  mamma.  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  had  taken 
steps  that  put  her  outside  the  Pale  —  whatever  that  meant. 
Christopher's  "What  Pale?"  was  overlooked  in  her  ve- 
hemence. Leaving  her  little  girl,  too,  —  Trimmer  had  n't 
patience.  Well,  anyway,  said  Christopher,  the  nice  English- 
man thought  her  nice,  and  he,  Christopher,  would  rather 
(if  not  precisely  in  these  words)  be  thought  nice  by  him 
than  by  all  the  ugly  old  women  put  together  who  sat  in 


CHRISTOPHER  55 

groups  on  the  sands,  on  week  days,  went  to  church  in  the 
Rue  de  la  Lampe  on  Sundays,  and  wore  bonnets  and 
bugles  and  called  on  each  other  all  day  long! 

"For  shame,  Master  Christopher." 

"I  would,"  said  Christopher  stoutly,  nor  was  he  to  be 
dislodged  from  the  position  he  had  taken  up  as  the  lady's 
champion.  Trimmer,  however,  might  be  relied  on  to  show 
wisdom  in  her  generation,  and  to  cease  argument  at  the 
right  moment.  One  thing  would  oust  another,  she  knew 
that ;  and  led  Christopher  from  the  scene  of  the  discussion 
—  the  sands,  where  Mrs.  St.  Jemison,  whether  she  was 
there  or  not,  might  always  be  felt  to  be  in  evidence  —  to 
the  Esplanade,  where  planks  and  nails  and  much  hammer- 
ing were  insisting  just  then  on  the  imminent  impendence 
of  the  summer  fair. 

"We'll  see  how  they're  getting  on  up  there,  shall  we?" 
said  Trimmer. 

"Up  there,"  where  the  Mobiles  had  once  shivered  in  the 
cold,  there  was  bustle  and  stir  to  divert  the  young  mind. 
The  merry-go-rounds  had  not  arrived  yet,  but  many  of  the 
shows  were  in  course  of  erection.  Gaunt  frameworks, 
presently  to  be  covered  with  canvas,  threw  unwonted 
shadows.  Living  vans  stood  by  pegged-out  claims  where 
presently  a  Bearded  Lady  or  a  Giant  or  a  Fat  Woman 
would  hold  five-sou  or  three-sou  court.  Here  dust  was  in 
the  air,  with  many  conflicting  odours.  Farther  on,  where 
the  stalls  would  soon  display  their  wares,  the  clean  smell  of 
wood  was  predominant  and  met  the  nostrils  pleasantly. 
Here  was  a  stall  nearly  finished.  Packing-cases  lay  in  it 
and  outside  it,  and  shavings  and  straw  littered  the  ground. 
Here,  again,  the  frame  only  was  standing,  and  neat  match- 
boarding  waited  the  carpenter's  will.  Shining  nails  lay 
everywhere.  You  might  pick  one  up  at  every  step,  and 
Christopher  soon  had  his  pockets  full.  The  hammering  was 
deafening  in  places.  Every  board,  whether  implicated  or 
not,  made  itself  a  sounding-board  for  ringing  blows.  These 
echoed  down  the  unfinished  alleys,  and,  whenever  they 


56  CHRISTOPHER 

found  three  walls,  there  made  riot.  It  was  Take  that,  and 
that,  and  that,  —  through  poor  Trimmer's  head  —  Christ- 
opher enjoying  it  all,  taking  all  he  was  given  and  asking 
for  more! 

Mingling  with  the  scent  of  the  wood  was  now  and  then 
a  delicious  smell  of  cooking.  Here,  as  everywhere  else  in 
the  town,  or  any  French  town,  something  very  savoury 
seemed  to  be  in  course  of  preparation  not  far  from  wherever 
you  might  be,  and  through  unfinished  doors,  or  the  alley 
between  stall  and  stall,  a  glimpse  might  be  caught  of  a 
woman  stirring  a  saucepan  or  bending  over  a  frying-pan, 
or  lifting  the  lid  of  a  pot,  perhaps,  to  taste  what  it  covered. 
Mrs.  St.  Jemison  was  forgotten ;  the  nice  Englishman ;  Cora. 

Christopher  jingled  the  nails  in  his  pockets.  He  had 
tenpenny  nails,  nails  with  square  flat  heads,  brass-headed 
nails,  "brads,"  tacks,  even. 

"The  'oles  I  shall  'ave  to  mend,"  thought  Trimmer  to 
herself,  —  "  the  'oles." 

Still  it  was  better  than  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  —  and  ten 
minutes  later  it  was  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  —  Mrs.  St.  Jemison 
more  than  ever,  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  to  some  purpose. 

Trimmer,  it  chanced,  had  made  a  conquest  just  then  at 
Boulogne  —  not  her  only  conquest,  by  any  means,  since 
she  had  lived  with  Mrs.  Herrick,  either  there  or  elsewhere. 
But  the  English  piano-tuner  was  rather  an  attractive  young 
man,  and  his  "superior"  position  impressing  Trimmer, 
who  frowned  as  often  as  not  upon  her  conquests,  she  was 
inclined  to  smile  upon  him.  Meeting  him  now  by  chance 
upon  this  summer's  day  she  smiled  upon  him  at  some  little 
length,  and  Christopher,  left  to  himself  for  the  unmeasured 
moment,  wandered  off  to  seek  amusement  or  mischief. 
He  found  both  near  at  hand,  and  was  soon  happy  upon  a 
hazardous  see-saw  of  his  own  contriving. 

Trimmer  then  might  be  as  long  as  she  liked  with  her 
piano-tuner.  A  rickety  trestle  supported  the  plank  upon 
which  Christopher  balanced  himself  adventurously.  He 


CHRISTOPHER  57 

threw  his  weight  first  upon  one  foot  and  then  on  the  other, 
and  the  plank  responded  upon  its  rocking  axis.  A  little  crowd 
of  gamins,  never  long  absent  anywhere,  collected  presently, 
and  began  to  offer  suggestions.  Christopher,  a  good-tem- 
pered little  boy,  was  for  ignoring  these  politely,  or  even 
for  explaining  why  he  did  not  care  to  adopt  them,  when  one 
ragamuffin,  more  aggressive  than  the  rest,  laid  his  hand  on 
the  swaying  plank  and  pushed  it. 

Christopher's  French  was  not  idiomatic. 

"Si  vous  faites  c.a  encore  — " 

No  sooner  said  than  done.  The  plank  swung  suddenly 
round.  The  trestle  heeled  over.  There  was  a  crash  and 
a  cry  and  Christopher  lay  amid  the  wreck  of  his  see-saw. 
He  was  on  his  feet  in  a  moment,  —  ready  with  his  little 
fists,  too !  —  and  was  vaguely  conscious  of  being  spurred 
on  by  a  voice  which  said,  "Go  it,  young  'un.  Punch  their 
bullet  heads  for  them,"  when  of  a  sudden  the  world,  like 
the  plank,  swung  round,  and  Christopher  sank  to  the 
ground.  He  was  only  dimly  aware  then  of  the  precipitate 
flight  of  the  boys  as  some  one  ran  forward  .  .  . 

"It's  the  nice  little  English  boy,"  another  voice  was 
saying  when  he  came  to  himself. 

"Young  devils,  I'd  like  to  have  broken  their  heads  for 
them.  What  is  it,  little  chap?  Where  does  it  hurt?" 

"In  my  trousers,"  said  Christopher.  "I  think  it's  one 
of  the  nails." 

"One  of  the  nails!" 

"He's  bleeding.   Oh,  poor  little  fellow." 

"Hush,  you'll  frighten  him.  What  nails,  little  chap?" 

"The  ones  I  picked  up.  You  can  find  any  number  if  you 
look,  you  can,  really.  Oh!" 

He  had  moved  a  little  as  he  spoke  and  the  stab  of  pain 
which  he  felt  forced  a  cry  from  him. 

"It's  in  still.  It's  sticking  in,"  he  said  —  in  rather  a 
weak  voice  for  Christopher. 

It  was  indeed.  He  began  to  cry  now  in  spite  of  himself. 
A  spreading  patch  of  blood  was  reddening  his  trousers. 


58  CHRISTOPHER 

He  was  wearing  a  white  sailor  suit  and  the  encroaching 
stain  looked  dreadful  upon  the  linen.  Christopher  won- 
dered whether  he  was  going  to  die. 

The  Englishman's  fingers  wrestled  with  buttons.  Mrs. 
St.  Jemison,  pulling  off  her  gloves,  and  ignoring  the  dust, 
was  on  her  knees  in  a  moment  and  helping  him  with  gentle, 
capable  hands. 

"Now,  pull,"  he  said  to  her.  "Easy!  There's  another 
button.  No,  it 's  the  pocket.  Stop,  I  '11  cut  it."  He  whipped 
out  a  penknife. 

"Not  you,  little  chap,  don't  be  frightened.  Only  your 
pocket.  It 's  all  right.  We  won't  even  spoil  your  beautiful 
suit,  though  I  think  it'll  have  to  go  into  the  tub  after  this, 
won't  it?  That's  better.  Get  my  handkerchief  out  of  my 
pocket.  Inside.  Yes,  I  shall  want  yours,  too.  Hold  him 
up  a  little  bit,  will  you?  Now,"  to  Christopher,  "it'll  hurt 
just  for  one  second,  old  boy;  you  won't  mind  that,  will  you? 
and  then  you'll  be  as  right  as  ninepence." 

Yes,  it  did  hurt  for  a  second.  Christopher  held  his 
breath.  He  would  n't  cry  out.  He  would  rather  be  hurt 
by  the  young  Englishman  than  any  one.  He  did  n't  much 
mind  being  hurt  by  the  young  Englishman.  But,  oh,  it  did 
hurt.  He  had  to  hold  his  breath  tight. 

' '  Where 's  Master  Christopher  ? ' '  Trimmer  said  suddenly. 

The  nearest  hammering  had  ceased  for  some  reason  or 
other,  and  perhaps  the  comparative  lull  brought  her  back 
to  a  sense  of  her  surroundings.  She  did  not  want  her  charge 
out  of  her  sight  for  long  amongst  fair-folk  whom  she  thought 
of  as  gipsies. 

"Where's  Master  Christopher?" 

"Not  far  off,  you  may  be  sure,  Miss  Trimmer." 

"I  don't  know  why,  then,"  said  Trimmer,  "though  I'm 
sure  I  hope  you're  right." 

"No  one,"  said  the  piano- tuner  gallantly,  —  "no  one 
who  had  the  felicity  to  be  privileged,  so  to  speak,  to  be 
near  you,  could  wish  of  his  own  will  to  wander  very  far." 


CHRISTOPHER  59 

"Tut,  tut,"  said  Trimmer,  not  ill-pleased  all  the  same. 
"Not  Master  Christopher's  view  of  the  situation,  I  can  tell 
you,  when  I  have  to  say,  'No,  you  must  n't,'  to  him,  as  I 
have  to  nine  times  out  of  ten  —  though  a  better  boy  never 
ate  sour  apples.  Where  is  he,  though?  He  was  here  not  a 
minute  ago  —  not  five,  anyway." 

She  looked  about  her.  The  ceasing  of  the  hammering 
near  at  hand  gave  an  unreal  feeling  to  the  moment.  The 
piano-tuner  and  she,  having  been  at  some  pains  to  make 
themselves  heard,  were  left  suddenly  with  raised  voices. 
It  was  to  Trimmer  as  if,  walking  in  the  dark,  she  had  felt 
a  searchlight  suddenly  turned  on  her. 

The  men  who  had  been  hammering  jumped  down  from 
an  unfinished  stall  and  made  hastily  for  the  spot  where  the 
shows  would  be.  Some  women  ran  across  the  open  space 
at  the  end  of  the  alley. 

"There's  something  up,"  said  the  piano-tuner. 

"If  there's  a  crowd  Master  Christopher's  sure  to  be  in 
it,"  said  Trimmer.  "I  never  saw  such  a  curious  boy  — 
and  not  exactly  curious  either.  More  interested,  I  think. 
Interested  in  everything  and  wanting  to  see  it  and  under- 
stand it.  I  'm  sure,  when  he  was  smaller,  I  spent  my  time 
in  nothing  else  than  saying,  'Oh,  do  come  along,  Master 
Christopher.'" 

"  You  would  n't  have  to  say  that  very  often  to  me,"  said 
the  piano-tuner.  He  had  but  one  idea. 

They  began  to  walk  towards  the  opening.  Trimmer  sud- 
denly quickened  her  pace.  Suppose  Master  Christopher 
were  not  round  the  corner,  after  all !  She  remembered  a 
day  when  he  and  another  little  boy  had  gone  off  by  them- 
selves on  the  rocks  and  terrified  their  respective  nurses 
out  of  their  senses.  They  had  been  found  then  in  their 
homes,  calmly  waiting  the  return  of  their  missing  guard- 
ians —  the  tables  turned  to  some  purpose !  But  the  fright 
—  the  horrible  "turn"! 

"If  he's  not  there,"  said  Trimmer,  "I'll  never  forgive 
you." 


60  CHRISTOPHER 

"  Me  ?  "  said  the  piano-tuner,  —  "  never  forgive  me  ?  " 

"Yes,  you,"  said  Trimmer  sharply,  but,  repenting  her 
of  the  evil  as  she  saw  his  face  fall,  added,  "Nor  myself 
either,"  for  his  comfort. 

They  reached  the  opening.  Yes,  there  was  a  crowd  sure 
enough.  Trimmer  hurried  forward.  Christopher  would 
be  in  the  thick  of  this.  It  did  not  surprise  her  that  she 
should  not  see  him  on  the  outskirts.  He  would  have 
wormed  his  sturdy  litheness  to  the  middle  of  it,  where  he 
would  be  asking  questions,  making  suggestions,  answering 
its  components  in  their  own  tongue.  Well,  well,  she  knew 
where  to  find  him ;  and  approached  now,  nothing  doubting. 

To  her  surprise  the  crowd  broke  for  her.  Afterwards  she 
realised  that  some  one,  who  had  perhaps  seen  the  pair 
together,  recognised  her  as  Christopher's  nurse  and  made 
way  for  her,  telling  the  others.  To  her  at  the  time  it  was 
as  to  the  Israelites  when  they  saw  the  waters  of  the  Red 
Sea  parting  before  them.  When  she  saw  Christopher,  pale 
then  from  loss  of  blood,  and  saw  who  they  were  who  were 
ministering  to  him,  her  feelings  were  such  as  could  with 
difficulty  have  been  put  into  words. 

Mrs.  St.  Jemison  and  the  young  Englishman  —  with 
help  from  Christopher,  proud  of  the  inch  and  a  half  of 
tenpenny  nail  which  had  been  pulled  out  of  him  —  quickly 
explained  the  situation.  The  wound  was  being  bound  up 
with  the  two  handkerchiefs.  Even  in  that  moment  of  fear 
and  dismay,  Trimmer  remembered  that  the  handkerchiefs 
were  "compromised." 

"He  ought  to  see  a  doctor  at  once,"  the  Englishman 
said  aside  to  her,  when  he  had  put  the  last  pin  (Mrs.  St. 
Jemison's  pins!)  in  the  bandage.  "  I  don't  think  he's  done 
himself  much  harm,  but  he  has  lost  a  little  blood,  and  the 
wound  ought  to  be  seen  to.  Who  is  your  mistress's  doctor  ? ' ' 

Trimmer  named  him.  She  was  trembling,  but  itching  to 
get  Christopher  to  herself. 

The  bandaging  was  finished,  but  at  least  she  could  dress 
him.  Like  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  before  her,  she  fell  to  her 


CHRISTOPHER  61 

knees  beside  him,  and  with  nimble  albeit  shaking  fingers 
began  to  adjust  his  clothes.  The  Englishman  resigned  him 
to  her  greater  experience. 

"  I  should  like  to  have  punched  those  boys,"  said  Christ- 
opher. 

"You  wanted  to  get  at  'em,  did  n't  you,  little  chap?" 
said  the  Englishman,  smiling.  "He 's  a  plucky  little  devil," 
he  added  under  his  breath  to  Trimmer. 

Mrs.  St.  Jemison  stood  now  looking  on.  With  the  com- 
ing of  Trimmer  her  part  seemed  done.  She,  perhaps,  could 
see  that  the  English  nurse  was  chafing  to  get  her  charge 
away  from  his  surroundings.  Trimmer's  manner  was  per- 
fectly respectful,  but  to  Mrs.  St.  Jemison,  accustomed  to 
the  looks  of  people  who  could  not  call  and  to  varying 
degrees  of  disapproval  or  criticism,  its  significance  would 
be  patent.  Trimmer  had  turned  a  listening  eye  upon  her 
when  she  spoke,  but  had  addressed  herself  only  to  her  com- 
panion. 

" I'll  take  him  home  now,  sir,  thank  you.  I '11  get  a  fly. 
I  shall  be  able  to  manage." 

She  rose  to  her  feet  and  shook  the  dust  from  her  skirt. 
Her  face  lifted  as  her  eye  fell  upon  the  piano-tuner,  who 
stood  at  the  edge  of  the  crowd. 

"Get  me  a  fly,"  she  said,  and  turned  back  to  Christopher. 
"Say  good-bye,  Master  Christopher,  and  thank  the  gen- 
tleman and  the  lady  for  their  kindness." 

"The  fly's  not  here  yet,"  said  Christopher. 

"It  will  be  in  a  minute,  dear,"  she  said,  controlling  her 
voice  with  difficulty.  "We  must  n't  trouble  the  gentleman 
and  the  lady  any  further." 

"He  ought  n't  to  walk,  you  know,"  said  Mrs.  St.  Jemi- 
son to  the  Englishman,  doubtfully.  "He  oughtn't,  you 
know.  It  might  bring  on  the  bleeding  again." 

"You'd  better  let  me  carry  you  to  the  fly,"  said  the 
Englishman.  He  addressed  Christopher,  but  in  a  manner 
that  did  not  exclude  Trimmer. 

"I'll  carry  him,  sir,  thank  you  — " 


62  CHRISTOPHER 

"No  you  won't,  Trimmer.  I  won't  be  carried.  I'll 
walk." 

"No,  little  chap,  you  must  n't  walk." 

"Trimmer  shan't  carry  me,"  said  Christopher.  "Why 
can't  I  walk?" 

The  reason  was  explained  to  him  discreetly. 

"You  shall  carry  me,"  he  said  then. 

Trimmer  said  nothing.  The  Englishman  said  nothing 
either,  but  lifted  Christopher  in  his  arms  and  began  to 
walk  with  him  in  the  direction  of  the  Grande  Rue.  Mrs. 
St.  Jemison  walked  on  one  side  of  him,  Trimmer  on  the 
other.  The  crowd  began  to  disperse  or  followed.  The 
workmen  went  back  to  their  hammering.  Such  of  the 
crowd  as  were  following  were  reenforced  by  newcomers. 
These  came  from  behind  the  half-built  shows  or  out  of 
them,  or  were  the  casual  and  the  passer-by.  Trimmer's 
silence  was  palpable.  Ten  to  one  there  would  n't  be  a  fly 
to  be  had  for  love  or  money,  and  what  then?  Was  her  mis- 
tress's son  to  face  half  the  length  of  the  Grande  Rue  in  his 
present  company,  a  growing  crowd  following?  The  thought 
was  intolerable. 

"If  you'll  put  him  on  the  seat  at  the  corner,  sir,  I'll 
wait  till  the  fly  comes." 

"You'd  better  do  as  she  wishes,"  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  said 
in  a  low  voice. 

"Will  you  tell  me  something?"  Christopher  was  saying 
to  the  bronzed  ear  near  his  face. 

"Anything  you  like,  little  chap." 

"  I  want  to  know  your  name  when  I  tell  mother." 

"My  name,  eh?" 

"That's  Mrs.  St.  Jemison,  I  know,  and  her  daughter's 
called  Cora." 

"Oh,  you  know  all  that,  do  you?"  said  the  Englishman, 
smiling,  but  an  odd  look  came  into  his  face  and  he  turned 
his  head  away  a  little. 

"Yes,"  said  Christopher.   "You  don't  mind,  do  you?" 

"No,  little  chap." 


CHRISTOPHER  63 

"What's  your  name,  then?" 

"Oh,  there  is  a  fly,"  said  Trimmer.  "There  is  one." 
Her  eagerness  was  painful. 

"My  name's  John  Hemming,  little  chap.  If  I  thought 
it  would  hurt  you  to  know  it,  I  would  n't  tell  you.  Good- 
bye and  God  bless  you." 

He  motioned  to  Trimmer  to  get  in,  and  deposited  his 
burden  in  her  lap.  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  stood  back. 

"I  —  I  am  grateful  to  you,  sir,"  said  Trimmer  un- 
steadily, "and  —  and  to  the  lady,  too.  My  mistress  would 
wish  me  to  thank  you  — " 

The  Englishman  stopped  her  with  a  gesture. 

"Put  him  to  bed,"  he  said.  "I'll  see  that  the  doctor  is 
sent  to  you." 

It  was  not  till  then  that  Trimmer  burst  into  tears. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

CHRISTOPHER'S  accident  was  a  little  more  serious  than  had 
been  supposed  at  first.  Before  the  fly  arrived  at  the  green- 
shuttered  house,  the  bleeding  had  broken  out  afresh.  The 
ominous  stain  shewed  itself  suddenly  to  be  spreading  upon 
what  was  still  white  of  the  white  trousers,  and  Trimmer,  in 
the  shaking  fly,  improvising  an  urgent  tourniquet  with 
her  handkerchief  and  trembling  fingers,  may  have  re- 
pented her  precipitancy  in  dismissing  even  damaged  Sa- 
maritans. Christopher  was  half  fainting  when  she  carried 
him  up  the  steps. 

Celestine's  cry  on  beholding  him  —  she  was  always  ready 
to  "push"  cries,  as  we  know  —  brought  Mrs.  Herrick  from 
the  dining-room  where  she  had  been  settling  flowers.  Her 
face  grew  as  white  as  Christopher's. 

"Trimmer!"  she  said,  catching  her  breath. 

Trimmer  hastened  to  reassure  her. 

"Not  badly.  Not  badly,  thank  God.  It's  the  loss  of 
blood.  He  slipped  off  some  boards  at  the  fair  — " 

Christopher  opened  his  eyes  to  say,  "I  did  n't.  They 
pushed  me,"  and  closed  them  again  as  his  mother's  arms 
slid  round  him,  reminding  him  of  nursery  days. 

Trimmer  accepted  the  amendment. 

"They  pushed  him,"  she  said,  —  "some  little  gamins 
—  his  see-saw,  as  I  understand.  And  a  nail  ran  into  him. 
He  had  n't  been  out  of  my  sight  half  a  minute,  and  you  '11 
never  forgive  me,  for  nice  hands  he  'd  got  into  —  though 
their  kindness  you  would  n't  believe.  Oh,  I  '11  tell  you,  'm, 
by  degrees.  The  first  thing's  to  get  him  to  bed." 

They  got  him  to  bed  without  loss  of  time,  Mrs.  Herrick 
wasting  none  in  useless  questions  or  lamentations,  and,  for 
something  of  conviction  in  Trimmer's  tone,  even  accepting 


CHRISTOPHER  65 

her  assurance  that  the  doctor  would  be  with  them  as  soon 
as  was  humanly  possible.  Trimmer,  shaken  and  upset, 
began  to  recover  herself.  It  was  strange,  and  significant, 
too,  how  complete  a  confidence  the  young  Englishman  had 
inspired  in  her.  Through  all  her  antagonism  she  knew  that 
she  could  trust  him.  Oddly  enough,  she  knew  that,  in  this, 
at  least,  she  could  have  trusted  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  too. 

"  If  one's  out,"  she  said  to  herself,  "he'll  find  another," 
and  with  her  mind's  eye  could  see  Mr.  Hemming  scouring 
the  town.  But  the  doctor  had  not  been  out,  and  Christ- 
opher had  barely  been  laid  between  the  cool  sheets  before 
the  sound  of  wheels  at  the  door  told  of  his  arrival. 

From  the  window  of  Christopher's  room  she  saw  him 
hop  from  the  fly.  Its  remaining  occupant,  with  a  wave  of 
the  hand  to  him  and  a  word  to  the  coachman,  was  driven 
off  as  the  doctor's  ring  sounded 

"He  has  been  quick,"  said  Trimmer;  but  she  did  not 
mean  the  doctor. 

Bed  for  Christopher,  then,  for  some  days,  it  was  probable. 
A  bad  night  followed  his  accident.  A  suspicion  of  poison 
in  the  wound  and  a.  resulting  "temperature."  He  tossed 
and  turned  and  could  not  sleep,  or  slept  and  dreamed.  He 
was  so  hot.  He  was  burning.  He  was  sure  he  was  on  fire. 
And  he  was  thirsty.  Oh,  not  barley  water.  Plain  water. 
Cold  water.  Oh,  not  just  a  little  like  that.  A  long,  long 
drink  .  .  . 

His  mother  was  always  beside  him  when  he  woke,  and 
her  cool  hand  there  to  put  upon  his  burning  forehead. 
How  cool  it  was  each  time,  till  the  burning  of  the  forehead 
heated  it.  But  it  was  always  cool  again  in  a  moment,  and 
never  tired.  Trimmer  was  in  and  out  all  night  too.  She 
wanted  her  mistress  to  go  to  bed,  but  in  vain. 

"For  an  hour,  'm  —  just  for  an  hour." 

"No,  I'd  rather  stay." 

The  two  sat  by  the  shaded  lamp  near  his  bed. 

Christopher,  half  dozing,  heard  scraps  of  whispered  con- 


66  CHRISTOPHER 

versation.  Trimmer  was  always  saying,  "I'll  never  for- 
give myself,"  and  his  mother,  "  Nonsense,  Trimmer.  How 
could  you  help  it?"  or  "It  was  n't  your  fault." 

"What  I  could  have  wanted  to  stop  there  talking  for! 
It  is  n't  as  if  —  and  besides.  Though  who  could  have  sup- 
posed!" 

"Nobody.   You're  not  a  bit  to  blame." 

"But  if  I  had  n't,  it  would  n't  have  happened." 

"Oh,  nonsense  and  stuff,"  his  mother  would  say  ab- 
sently. This  many  times. 

Then  there  was  another  sort  of  conversation  of  which 
Christopher,  waking  suddenly  from  a  longer  dozing,  became 
aware,  and  to  which  I  am  afraid  he  listened,  using  stillness 
for  ambush,  as,  in  its  hour,  he  had  used  Granny  Oxeter's 
big  Bible. 

"Down  on  her  knees  in  the  dust,  'm,  and  the  skirt  was 
embroidered  six  rows.  Down  in  all  the  dust,  and  you  know 
what  that  is  when  they're  putting  up  the  shows.  French 
dust,  too,  which  nobody '11  ever  persuade  me  is  n't  dustier 
than  English.  But  there  she  was,  and  if  it  had  been  to  tear 
up  her  petticoat,  I  believe  she'd  have  done  it." 

"It  was  wonderful.   Poor,  poor  woman." 

Christopher  wanted  to  ask  why. 

"And  me  hardly  speaking  to  her  civilly,  because  I 
could  n't  bear  that  she  should  touch  him  —  and  ready  to 
cry  too  for  her  kindness.  It  was  dreadful.  I  must  have 
seemed  as  hard  as  hard.  But  inside  —  well,  she  could  n't 
know  that.  She  saw.  Oh,  she  saw.  She  was  all  for  stopping 
him  and  keeping  out  of  it.  Of  course  I  hardly  said  anything, 
but  she 's  had  something  to  put  up  with,  any  one  could 
tell,  and  to  have  to  hurt  her  — " 

"Oh,  I  hope  you  did  n't." 

"  I  don't  know,  'm.  I  spoke  to  him,  'm,  when  I  had  to. 
Oh,  I  did  n't  forget  my  place.  Nobody  could  say  I 
was  n't  respectful.  But  you  don't  have  to  use  words  to 
express  an  attitude,  and  one  part  of  what  I  was  feeling 
she  felt;  that  I  know.  The  other  part  she  did  n't.  She'll 


CHRISTOPHER  67 

never  know,  not  being  able  to  see  my  inside.  It  was  like 
throwing  stones  at  a  wounded  animal.  She's  not  happy, 
'm." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Herrick.    "How  could  she  be?" 

"Which  makes  it  twenty  times  worse." 

"Tell  me  about  him."  The  voice  did  not  sound  quite 
steady  which  said  this. 

"His  gentleness  I  shall  never  forget,"  said  Trimmer. 
"Never.  Though  why  I  should  have  made  choice  between 
them  —  speaking  to  him,  I  mean,  when  I  had  to,  without 
a  look  if  I  could  help  it  in  her  direction,  passes  my  compre- 
hension —  looking  at  things  fair  and  square  as  I  am  now. 
Still,  there  it  is.  It's  the  woman  we  blame  when  all's  said. 
If  Master  Christopher 'd  been  his  own  son  he  could  n't 
have  been  more  tender.  The  handkerchiefs  I  '11  wash  myself, 
'm.  And  proud  of  him  like  —  as  if  he  might  have  wished 
for  a  boy  of  his  own.  'Little  chap'  he  called  him." 

"'Little  chap'!   Did  he?" 

"To  bring  the  tears  to  your  eyes,  'm." 

"Oh,  the  poor  fellow." 

Why  again? 

"And  all  the  while,  under  my  'ardness,  I  was  thinking 
to  myself  that  it  would  have  gone  hard  with  her  to  resist 
him,  'm,  and  we  don't  know  what  she  may  have  gone 
through.  S-s-h,  'm." 

Trimmer  held  up  her  finger. 

"What  is  it?" 

In  a  moment  they  were  both  leaning  over  the  bed. 

"He  is  n't  asleep." 

"Can't  you,  darling?  Can't  you  get  to  sleep?  Count 
sheep  going  through  a  gate.  Or  shall  I  sing  to  you?" 

"Oh,  I'm  so  hot,"  said  Christopher. 

They  shook  up  his  pillows  and  turned  them.  That  was 
better,  was  n't  it?  Yes,  but  only  for  a  little  while,  for  the 
cool  pillow  grew  hot.  It  was  time  for  his  medicine  then. 
He  watched  his  mother  measure  it  out  —  an  Eighth  Part 
every  Four  Hours.  He  had  taken  two  Eighth  Parts  now, 


68  CHRISTOPHER 

she  said  to  divert  him.  Twice  eight  was  sixteen.  He  had 
taken  One  Sixteenth,  had  n't  he?  —  which  was  a  great 
deal. 

It  was  Trimmer  who  detected  the  flaw  in  that  argument. 
According  to  that,  she  said,  the  dose  about  to  be  taken 
would  make  One  Twenty-fourth,  and  just  look  at  the 
bottle. 

"Well,  three  eights  are  twenty-four,"  Mrs.  Herrick 
began  to  say  and  looked  at  the  bottle  —  well,  it  was  the 
middle  of  the  night !  Mrs.  Herrick's  laugh  was  always  good 
to  hear,  and  Christopher  laughed  because  she  did.  But 
his  great  restlessness  had  begun  again.  No,  the  wound  was 
not  hurting  him.  It  was  only  —  only  — 

"Only  what,  darling?" 

He  did  not  know,  and  was  crying. 

Then  his  mother  sang  to  him  as  in  the  very  early  days, 
and  chose  "Lord  Lovel." 

"I  want  to  see  him,"  said  Christopher. 

"Lord  Lovel?" 

"The  Englishman  —  Mr.  Hemming." 

That  was  what  Mrs.  Herrick  had  been  afraid  of.  It  was 
what  Trimmer  had  known  was  inevitable.  The  two  ex- 
changed glances. 

In  the  early  hours  of  the  morning,  when  Christopher  grew 
easier,  his  mother  consented  at  last  to  go  to  bed.  Even  then 
she  did  not  sleep,  but  lay  listening  from  her  own  room  for 
sounds  from  his.  At  six  Trimmer  looked  in  to  tell  her  that 
he  was  sleeping  comfortably,  and  she  suffered  herself  to 
close  her  eyes.  But  she  did  not  sleep  much  even  then.  At 
eight  she  was  with  him  once  more. 

It  was  a  lovely  morning.  The  sun  streamed  through 
the  window  on  to  Christopher's  bed,  and  with  it  came 
noises  from  the  busy  street.  The  sound  of  the  emptying 
of  water  was  never  long  absent  from  such  noises.  Bou- 
logne gutters  must  flow  with  soapy  water,  as  Boulogne 


CHRISTOPHER  69 

housewives  must  scour  and  scrub.  The  cry  of  the  coal 
came  in  and  the  cry  of  the  shrimps ;  other  cries,  some  of 
them  ugly:  Mme.  Leveque,  who  lived  over  the  coach- 
house, and  drank,  screaming  for  Alphonse  or  Louise;  a 
carter  swearing  at  an  overladen  horse;  but  for  the  most 
part  the  pleasant  sounds  of  life  and  a  workaday  world. 

Christopher,  awake  now,  washed  and  comfortable  in 
a  clean  nightshirt  and  a  newly  made  bed,  his  rumpled 
hair  brushed  and  combed,  lay  still  and  received  languid 
impressions.  Trimmer  had  "settled"  him  and  given  him 
his  breakfast,  and  had  now  left  him  to  make  her  own  toilet 
and  break  her  own  fast. 

A  solicitous  Amelie,  in  temporary  charge  of  him,  sur- 
rendered him  to  her  mistress. 

"I  descend  now,"  she  said,  "to  make  mount  madame's 
tea." 

His  mother  heightened  the  feeling  of  sunshine  in  the 
room.  She  wore  a  crackling  calico  dressing-gown  which  was 
all  over  little  green  sprigs,  and  her  hair  was  in  the  long 
plaits  by  which  he  used  to  drive  her  when  he  was  smaller. 
She  drew  him  into  her  crackling  arms. 

"You're  better,  darling.    You're  better,  thank  God." 

Yes,  he  was  better.  There  was  no  doubt  of  that.  His 
cheeks  were  no  longer  flushed,  and  his  eyes  no  longer  shone 
feverishly.  The  hot,  dreadful  night  was  over,  and  he  only 
felt  tired. 

"You  had  a  nice  breakfast?" 

He  nodded. 

"  I  was  n't  very  hungry.  I  don't  like  dry  toast  very 
much,  and  I'd  have  liked  tea." 

"Milk,  darling,  's  better  for  feverish  little  boys.  We 
want  the  doctor  to  find  you  much  better  when  he  comes." 

"Is  he  coming  again?" 

"Yes,  darling." 

"Am  I  going  to  be  ill  long?" 

"No,  dearest,  I  hope  not.   I  think  not.   Why?" 

Christopher  traced  the  pattern  of  one  of  the  green  sprigs 


70  CHRISTOPHER 

with  his  finger.  The  sprigs  were  little  bunches  of  myrtle 
tied  with  love-knots  of  pink  ribbon. 

"Why  did  you  keep  saying  'poor'  last  night  if  you  don't 
like  them?" 

"Poor?" 

"  About  them.  When  Trimmer  was  telling  you.  You  said, 
'Poor,  poor  woman,'  and  then  you  said,  'Poor  fellow.' 
And  Trimmer  was  beastly  to  them  —  at  least,  not  beastly, 
but —  I  don't  know.  Anyway,  she  hates  them.  She  won't 
let  me  even  say,  'There's  Mrs.  St.  Jemison,'  when  we  see 
her  on  the  Sands  ;  she  says,  '  'Ush,  Master  Christopher'  — 
and  her  dress  was  all  over  dust  where  she  knelt  on  it  — 
Mrs.  St.  Jemison,  I  mean  —  and  I  bled  on  his  trousers 
where  he  held  me.  I  saw  the  mark,  and  he  did  n't  say  any- 
thing, though  it  was  as  big  as  half  a  franc." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause  before  Mrs.  Herrick  spoke. 
Christopher  traced  the  outline  of  a  whole  sprig  on  the 
starched  dressing-gown. 

"He  seems  to  have  been  very,  very  kind  to  you,"  she 
said.  "  I  shall  never  forget  it  to  him  —  to  either  of  them. 
Trimmer  does  n't  hate  them  really  — " 

"Not  inside,  perhaps,"  interrupted  Christopher,  "but 
you  can't  see  inside.  She  said  so  last  night.  I  heard  her. 
And  outside  she  was  offended  all  over." 

Mrs.  Herrick  smiled  in  spite  of  herself,  so  aptly  did 
Christopher  seem  to  her  to  have  expressed  Trimmer  and 
her  attitude.  Offended  all  over.  She  could  see  Trimmer 
—  straightened,  rigid,  offended  all  over! 

"She  thanked  them,  dear.  She  did  thank  them.  She 
said  that  I  should  wish  her  to  thank  them." 

Christopher  clung  to  his  point. 

"I  wouldn't  let  her  carry  me,"  he  said.  "She  only 
wanted  to  prevent  him.  She  wanted  to  get  me  away  all  the 
time." 

Mrs.  Herrick  looked  at  her  son's  remonstrant  face,  and 
did  not  answer  immediately.  The  laughter  left  her  eyes. 

"Trimmer  was  in  a  very  difficult  position,"  she  said 


CHRISTOPHER  71 

when  she  spoke.  "  I  can't  explain  to  you.  You  do  trust  me, 
don't  you,  Christopher?  Well,  you  must  just  take  what  I  am 
going  to  say  without  understanding  it.  There  are  reasons 
why  we  can't  be  friends  with  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  and  Mr. 
Hemming.  Very  sad  reasons.  You  will  understand  one  of 
these  days,  and  you  will  know  that  we  could  n't  help  it. 
The  reasons  make  it  impossible  for  us  to  know  them.  No 
one  realises  this  better  than  they  do  themselves.  They 
know,  Christopher." 

"But  you  like  them  or  you  would  n't  have  said  ' Poor.' " 

"  I  am  sorry  for  them  both.  Things  might  have  been  so 
different.  Yes,  I  do  like  them,  I  must,  for  their  goodness 
to  my  son." 

"They'll  never  know,"  said  Christopher.  "It's  inside 
you're  sorry.  It's  inside  you  like  them.  And  they  can't 
see  inside.  Even  Trimmer  said  that.  They  won't  know 
you're  sorry.  They'll  think  you  hate  them  like  Trimmer 
—  even  if  she  does  n't  hate  them.  And  she  knelt  down  in 
all  the  dust,  and  I  bled  on  his  trousers." 

Christopher,  weakened  by  recent  loss  of  blood  and  the 
more  recent  fevers  of  the  night,  burst  into  tears. 

"They'll  never  know,"  he  sobbed.  "They  can't  know 
if  we  don't  tell  them.  It's  dreadful  to  seem  horrid  to 
people  when  you  love  them,  and  I  love  him  better  than 
any  one  —  except  you  —  and  —  and  Pierre,  and  Pierre 's 
dead.  He  tried  not  to  hurt  me  when  he  pulled  the  nail 
out,  and  it  did  hurt,  and  I  did  n't  cry,  and  he  said  I  was 
plucky.  But  it  was  n't  that.  It  was  because  — " 

"Because  what,  dear?" 

"Because  I  would  n't  have  minded  how  much  he  hurt 
me,  and  he'll  never  know.  He'll  never  know." 

Mrs.  Herrick's  arms  closed  more  tightly  round  him. 
His  tears  wet  the  sprigs  on  her  dressing-gown  —  took  the 
"starch"  from  the  calico  where  they  fell.  She  whispered 
endearments,  comfort.  But  he  would  not  be  comforted.  In 
her  heart  she  was  proud  of  him.  Her  boy  was  a  gentle- 
man. 


72  CHRISTOPHER 

"You  must  n't  cry,  Christopher.  You  11  make  yourself 
ill  again.  He  will  know.  If  he 's  what  I  take  him  to  be  — 
what  I  do  believe  him  to  be  —  he'll  understand.  I  know 
what  you  feel  —  and  I  'm  glad  to  think  my  boy  does  feel  in 
this  way." 

Christopher  shook  his  head. 

"You  know  because  I've  told  you,  but  I  have  n't  told 
him." 

He  refused  to  be  comforted. 


CHAPTER   IX 

IN  the  end  it  came  that  a  strange  hour  found  Mrs.  Her- 
rick writing  a  difficult  letter.  Christopher  was  not  making 
such  progress  towards  recovery  as,  considering  his  youth 
and  the  nature  of  his  illness,  he  should  have  made,  and 
something  not  unlike  anxiety  began  to  threaten  the  green- 
shuttered  house.  Mrs.  Herrick  would  not  admit  that  there 
was  cause,  or  that  there  was  likely  to  be  cause,  for  any- 
thing so  unnerving,  so  terrible ;  but  the  hour  came,  all  the 
same,  when  she  wrote  to  John  Hemming.  It  might  have 
surprised  Christopher  to  know  that  her  letter,  though  after 
long  deliberation,  began  "Dear  John." 

She  took  no  one  into  her  confidence  but  Trimmer,  who 
was  to  find  out  where  he  was  staying,  and  thither  convey 
the  letter  to  him.  In  the  circumstances  there  was  no  one 
that  she  could  consult.  Her  mother,  to  be  sure,  was  largely 
tolerant  and,  within  limits,  was  always  for  living  and  let- 
ting live.  She  had  fewer  of  the  arbitrary  prejudices  of  her 
time  than  most  people,  and  would  at  least  have  seen  that 
there  were  two  sides  to  a  question.  With  her  Mrs.  Herrick 
would  gladly  have  talked  out  her  intention.  But  of  her 
sisters,  Laura  and  Catherine,  good  timid  creatures,  in- 
clining, of  weakness,  to  rigid  orthodoxy  and  to  intermin- 
able discussions,  she  could  not  be  sure.  They  had  not 
thought  that  she  should  even  write  to  Mrs.  St.  Jemison 
to  thank  her,  wtfen  she  returned  the  handkerchiefs.  It  was 
in  deference  to  their'high-pitched  opinion  that  she  had  so 
far  compromised  as  to  write  impersonally,  in  the  char- 
acter, that  is,  of  the  Mother  of  the  Little  Boy  who  met 
with  an  Accident,  and  to  whom  the  Lady  and  Gentleman, 
whose  Handkerchiefs  she  was  returning,  had  been  so  very 
Kind ;  but  her  own  inclination  would  have  been  to  write  in 


74  CHRISTOPHER 

ner  own  name  and  take  her  chance  of  embarrassing  conse- 
quences. 

Mrs.  St.  Jemison  had  an  apartment  in  the  Rue  Racine. 
Everybody  knew  that,  and  it  was  there  that  Trimmer  had 
taken  the  first  letter,  dropping  it  into  the  box  after  dark, 
and  hurrying  away  as  fast  as  her  virtuous  legs  would  carry 
her.  But  Mrs.  St.  Jemison,  it  seemed,  if  she  had  thrown 
her  cap  over  the  windmill,  had  some  regard  to  appearances 
arid  had  no  thought  of  throwing  her  two  dainty  shoes  in  its 
wake.  Mr.  Hemming,  so  Trimmer  discovered,  was  to  be 
found  no  nearer  to  his  lady's  bower  than  the  H6tel  des 
Deux  Mondes,  a  good  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  on  the  Port. 
There,  having  run  him  to  earth,  —  the  piano-tuner  aiding 
her,  —  she  delivered  her  letter. 

Mademoiselle  would  wait  the  reply  ? 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Trimmer,  with  a  significant  look 
at  her  attendant,  whom  nevertheless  she  promptly  dis- 
missed, before  hurrying  away  on  the  feet  of  the  prudent. 
Her  attitude  was  strictly  non-committal.  She  neither  dis- 
approved nor  approved  of  her  mistress's  action.  Some- 
thing had  to  be  done  —  so  much  was  clear.  Master  Christ- 
opher as  the  days  passed  was  not  picking  up  his  strength, 
and  had  taken  an  "idea"  into  his  curly  head.  Master 
Christopher  mattered  more  than  any  one  or  anything  else 
under  the  sun,  but  .  .  . 

Impossible  for  Trimmer,  with  her  training  and  her 
instinctive  prejudices,  to  eliminate  the  Buts  which 
crowded  upon  her  exercised  mind.  It  —  the  wisdom  of  the 
move  —  was  as  it  might  be.  She  could  go  no  further  than 
that. 

And  so  to  the  sum  of  his  young  impressions  Christopher 
added  another.  He  would  always  remember  the  Wonderful 
Visit.  It  was  like  the  visit  of  Pierre  and  Jean  to  his  bed- 
side, on  the  night  long  ago  of  their  arrival,  when  the  greatly 
desired  had  happened;  like  other  things,  "surprises"  for 


CHRISTOPHER  75 

the  most  part,  but,  perhaps,  for  the  ardour  with  which  he 
welcomed  it,  like  nothing  else  at  all. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day  on  which  Trim- 
mer had  been  sent  on  a  mysterious  errand  about  which 
he  had  been  vaguely  curious,  when  the  bell  of  the  front 
door  was  heard  to  ring.  His  mother  in  a  muslin  dress,  also 
with  sprigs  upon  it,  was  reading  to  him,  and  something 
in  the  way  she  broke  off  to  listen  arrested  his  attention. 
It  was  half-past  six  by  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece.  Only 
intimate  visits  in  the  ceremonious  seventies  were  paid  so 
late  in  the  afternoon. 

"Who  at  that  hour?"  his  mother's  expression  said 
plainly,  yet  with  a  tag  which  escaped  him  and  may  have 
been  the  "Unless — "  which,  in  the  circumstances,  it 
probably  was. 

His  grandmother  had  called  earlier,  and  his  two  aunts  — 
his  Aunt  Laura  in  a  new  hat  which,  it  had  been  agreed  at 
some  length,  did  not  become  her,  and  which,  as  she  could 
"conscientiously"  be  said  hardly  to  have  worn  it,  she  was 
going  to  "take  back  to  the  shop."  Unless  in  connection 
with  this  anything  had  happened  to  make  further  consulta- 
tion necessary,  it  was  improbable  that  a  second  visit  would 
be  paid  that  evening  by  any  member  of  the  family.  Who, 
then?  The  doctor  had  taken  Christopher  upon  his  morning 
round. 

Celestine  could  be  heard  answering  the  summons. 

Christopher  looked  at  his  mother.  She  was  sitting  with 
the  book  open  upon  her  knee,  listening  intently. 

Together  they  listened. 

"Who  do  you  tjiink  it  is?"  Christopher  whispered, 
though,  as  his  room  was  on  the  second  floor,  there  was  no 
very  urgent  reason  for  lowering  the  voice.  Was  it  some- 
thing in  the  moment  that  asked  for  whispers? 

Some  one  was  being  shown  up  to  the  drawing-room. 
Celestine's  foot  was  on  the  stairs.  It  surprised  Christo- 
pher a  little  that,  instead  of  waiting  till  Celestine  reached 


76  .CHRISTOPHER 

the  door,  his  mother  put  down  the  book  and  went  to  meet 
her  at  the  top  of  the  stairs.  He  did  not  hear  what  Celes- 
tine  said,  but  he  heard  her  go  down. 

To  his  surprise,  and  even  a  little  to  his  indignation,  also, 
his  mother  followed  her  without  coming  back  to  him.  He 
heard  her  open  and  close  the  door  of  the  drawing-room. 

It  seemed  a  long  time  before  any  further  sounds  reached 
him  from  below.  No  one  had  remembered  even  to  send 
Trimmer  to  him.  He  lay  still  and  looked  at  the  ceiling. 
And  at  the  wall  paper.  And  at  the  window.  He  was  very 
tired  of  being  in  bed.  Who  was  downstairs?  Not  that  it 
mattered.  He  hated  visitors. 

His  toys  were  where  he  could  get  at  them,  but  he  did  not 
turn  in  their  direction.  He  felt  as  at  the  dreary  time  which 
had  followed  the  departure  of  the  young  soldiers.  Nothing 
interested  him  very  much.  A  solitary  fly  was  stationary 
on  the  ceiling.  It  did  not  even  walk  about  to  amuse  him. 
The  wall  paper  had  rosebuds  and  ribands  upon  it,  but  no 
birds  to  chase  butterflies  as  on  the  Cheltenham  paper  to 
which  he  sent  a  regretful  thought  flying.  The  window  was 
not  near  enough  to  see  out  of. 

And  then  in  five  minutes  everything  had  changed  — 
nothing  actually,  for  the  fly,  which  was  dead,  remained 
stationary,  the  wall  paper  produced  no  birds  or  butter- 
flies, the  distant  window  showed  him  no  more  than  its 
patch  of  sky  —  but  everything,  everything !  There  was 
the  sudden  sound  of  the  drawing-room  door  being  opened. 
This  according  to  precedent  should  mean  departure.  There 
was  a  sound  of  voices  on  the  stairs  —  going  down?  not 
going  down ;  coming  his  way !  —  his  mother's  and  another 
voice.  It  was  the  sound  of  the  second  which  raised  Christo- 
pher's head  from  its  pillow.  His  heart  beat  wildly  under 
his  little  nightshirt. 

"Somebody  has  come  to  see  you,"  said  his  mother, 
appearing  at  the  door. 

,"Mr.  Hemming!"  said  Christopher. 


CHRISTOPHER  77 

Had  the  fountains  of  life  been  stayed,  so  that  they 
flowed  sluggishly,  grudgingly?  the  healing  juices  been  with- 
held? It  seemed  so.  For  it  was  presently  manifest  that 
from  the  moment  Christopher  had  unburdened  his  soul 
of  its  debt  of  gratitude,  —  unburdened  it,  rather,  of  the 
suspicion  of  ingratitude  under  which,  by  reason  of 
Trimmer  chiefly,  it  supposed  itself  (odd  little  soul !)  to  be 
lying,  —  he  began  to  mend.  It  was  as  if  the  blood  he  had 
spilled  flowed  back  into  his  veins,  permitting  nature  to  do 
its  beneficent  work. 

John  Hemming,  sitting  by  the  bed  and  hearing  Christo- 
pher's blushing  incoherences  about  what  Christopher  had 
thought  he  must  think,  understood  —  had  understood,  it 
seemed,  all  along.  Mrs.  Herrick,  standing  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed  in  her  pretty  sprayed  muslin,  watched  him  as  he 
reassured  her  breathless  little  son  with  '  Little  Chaps '  (as 
Trimmer  had  said  of  them,  to  bring  tears  to  your  eyes!), 
and  a  delightful  smile  and  the  pressure  of  the  kindest  hand 
that  ever  showed  breeding  and  strength. 

She  had  not  done  unwisely,  whatever  the  aunts  and  even 
Trimmer  might  think.  But  oh,  John  Hemming,  who  had 
once  wanted  to  marry  her,  and  oh,  the  pity  of  everything! 


CHAPTER  X 

CHRISTOPHER,  though  John  Hemming  may  be  said  indi- 
rectly, or  even  directly,  to  have  helped  him  to  recover, 
was  not  destined  to  add  many  impressions  of  that  elusive 
physician  to  his  large  store.  Those  that  he  did  add  were 
puzzling.  Why,  after  the  intimate  talk  in  his  room,  did 
his  new  friend  recede  to  an  even  greater  distance  than  that 
at  which  Christopher  had  viewed  him  in  the  days  before 
the  accident,  when  he  had  been  not  Mr.  Hemming  at  all, 
but  the  Englishman  who  looked  so  much  nicer  than  any 
one  else  at  Boulogne,  and  over  whom,  for  Christopher, 
by  reason  of  a  mysterious  connection  with  the  beautiful 
lady  who  could  not  be  called  upon  by  the  stuffy  groups, 
there  shone  all  the  glory  of  suspected  romance?  Things 
happened  —  or  rather  did  not  happen.  For  the  friendly 
pressure  of  his  hand,  he  gave  the  little  boy  the  barest  nod 
of  recognition  when  Christopher  waved  to  him  across  a 
road ;  and  he  did  not  stop,  though  he  must  have  seen  that 
Christopher  meant  to  elude  Trimmer  and  run  over  to  him. 
This  was  bewildering,  even  when  you  had  been  warned 
that  something  of  the  sort  must  happen.  But  worse  fol- 
lowed; meeting  Christopher  with  his  mother  almost  face 
to  face  in  the  street,  he  did  not  appear  to  see  either  of 
them  —  looked  straight  before  him ! 

Christopher,  withdrawing  an  outstretched  hand  and 
chilled  to  the  marrow,  looked  at  his  mother.  Her  eyes 
were  on  shop  windows.  He  could  hardly  restrain  his 
tears.  Did  he  make  his  friends  only  to  lose  them?  He  was 
too  young  for  the  thought  to  take  shape.  But  there  was 
Pierre  —  dead;  and  there  had  been,  and  there  was  not, 
John  Hemming.  His  poor  little  heart  was  very  full  that 
day.  No  sun  or  open  sea  or  quays  or  gutters  could  ease  it. 


CHRISTOPHER  79 

But  life  scurried  on — which  may  have  been  by  grown-up 
arrangement.  As  there  had  been  no  time  to  grieve  for  poor 
Pierre,  so  now  there  was  none  to  see  this  new  emotion  out. 
Moreover,  about  this  period,  to  the  relief  of  one  exercised 
looker-on,  Mrs.  St.  Jemison,  as  the  group  would  have  told 
you,  "disappeared"  from  Boulogne  (leaving,  it  is  prob- 
able, in  the  ordinary  way;  though  the  groups  having 
plumped  for  disappearance  would  have  no  other  word)  — 
and  the  H6tel  des  Deux  Mondes  on  the  Port  lost  a  guest. 
Whether  the  departures  were  traceable  ever  so  indirectly 
to  the  effect  of  recent  events  upon  one  from  whom,  what- 
ever his  shortcomings,  you  would  look  somehow  for  nice 
feeling,  it  is  not  for  me  to  say.  Christopher's  mother  may 
have  had  her  own  opinion.  She  did  not  express  it,  but, 
watching  Christopher,  whose  blankness,  we  may  be  sure, 
did  not  escape  her,  she  decided  that  the  time  had  arrived 
to  send  him  to  his  first  school. 

Thither  he  went,  escorted  daily  to  and  fro  by  Trimmer  or 
his  mother,  and  there,  with  a  baker's  dozen  of  the  sons  of 
some  of  the  English  Nobility  and  Gentry  of  the  French 
town,  began  his  young  studies  in  earnest. 

What  his  wise  mother  had  hoped  for  happened.  The 
world  widened  suddenly.  There  were  schoolboys  for  the 
tidied-up  children  he  played  with  at  parties;  strifes,  ambi- 
tions, emulations  —  punishments  even :  excitements  such 
.as  he  had  never  known.  He  hated  it  all  for  a  week,  and 
then,  still  hating  it  as,  of  your  loyalty  to  boyhood  generally, 
you  must  hate  everything  that  had  to  do  with  lessons,  fell 
under  the  spell  of  a  fuller  life.  John  Hemming  became  a 
memory  to  him  like,  Pierre  About,  whom  he  had  yet  loved ; 
Mrs.  St.  Jemison  also;  he  no  longer  wondered  about  Cora. 

It  was  then  that,  if  he  had  been  old  enough  to  observe 
his  mother  as  she,  of  her  love,  observed  him,  he  might  have 
remarked  that  something  had  come  into  her  gentle  life 
to  disturb  it.  What?  She  herself  hardly  knew.  So  secure 
had  she  thought  herself  in  this  backwater  into  which  fate 
had  softly  floated  her  little  barque,  that  it  was  not  till 


8o  CHRISTOPHER 

some  time  had  passed,  after  the  waters  had  been  troubled, 
that  she  realised  that  any  disturbance  had  taken  place. 
She  had  her  memories  and  Christopher.  There  was  not 
a  day  that  a  thought  did  not  take  its  flight  to  the  grave 
in  India  which  held  her  faithful  heart;  not  an  hour  that 
Christopher  himself  was  absent  from  her  active  thinking. 
The  sight  nevertheless  of  John  Hemming  had  shaken  her. 

Observing  herself  at  close  quarters,  Mrs.  Herrick,  with- 
out knowing  it,  learned  something  of  herself  —  perhaps 
even  of  the  incomprehensible  sex  to  which  she  belonged. 
She  had  loved,  and  she  loved,  her  husband ;  had  never  loved 
any  one  else.  Yet,  because  of  this, — was  it  possible? — 
John  Hemming,  out  of  the  past  which  held  both  of  them, 
had  the  power  to  trouble  her.  He  stood  to  her  for  the  time 
' —  so  short  a  time  back  in  reality !  —  which  had  been  for 
her  the  time  of  love.  A  sense  of  defencelessness  seized  her. 
Was  nothing  too  remote,  too  disproportionately  large  or 
small,  to  have  its  effect  upon  a  woman's  heart?  Two  coun- 
tries go  to  war,  do  they,  and  a  provincial  town  is  wrought 
and  fraught  with  excitement  just  to  cause  its  pulses  to 
beat  faster  or  slower  as  the  case  may  have  been?  The  maid 
falls  in  love  with  the  soldier.  Had  that  its  part  in  contribut- 
ing? —  the  harmless  young  soldiers  themselves  as  symbols 
of  vigorous  life?  Christopher's  interest  in  them  and  theirs 
in  him?  —  the  very  swing  they  had  put  up  for  him,  in  the 
granary?  Men's  unfamiliar  voices  for  women's  .  .  . 
Trimmer's  "There's  nothing  after  all,  'm,  like  a  man  in 
the  house  .  .  ."  ? 

She  could  have  hidden  her  face  for  shame  —  if  these 
things  had  a  share  in  disturbing  her  .  .  . 

Trimmer's  words  may  have  rung  in  her  ears,  playing 
a  tune  to  which,  at  the  mercy  of  it,  her  harassed  thoughts 
must  dance.  The  sturdy  footfall  for  the  swish  of  skirts. 
Downrightness  —  uprightness,  even,  perhaps !  —  for  subtle- 
ties. The  wide  airs  of  heaven  for  the  sheltered  hearth  ... 
The  man  in  the  house,  in  short!  It  was  dreadfully  true. 
There  was,  when  all  was  said  or  sung,  nothing  like  that. 


CHRISTOPHER  81 

For  so  long  she  had  forgotten.  The  time  of  love  had 
seemed  so  far  behind  her.  She  had  thought  herself  safe. 
She  had  thought  herself  divided  by  a  lifetime  and  her 
sorrow  from  the  eager  life  of  youth,  when  all  the  while  it 
needed  but  the  sight  of  one  who  had  once  wanted  to  marry 
her  (and  now  belonged  to  another!)  —  of  one,  unchanged, 
boyish-looking  still,  in  spite  of  experience  which  might 
have  been  expected  to  sober  him,  to  tell  her  that,  at  not 
much  more  than  thirty,  she  too  was  young.  It  was  fright- 
ening. 

Christopher  naturally  saw  nothing.  Little  boys  do  not 
see.  There  was  little,  moreover,  to  see,  so  that  even  Trim- 
mer saw  nothing.  Mr.  Hemming  to  her  was  an  attractive 
stranger,  that  was  all,  of  whom  she  knew  nothing  more 
than  that  he  was  (because  he  must  be!)  something  of  a 
scapegrace,  by  reason  of  which,  in  admitting  him  at  all 
to  the  house,  a  risk  had  assuredly  been  run.  She  did  not 
know,  for  Mrs.  Herrick  did  not  tell  her,  that  he  was  not 
a  stranger  at  all. 

Mrs.  Oxeter  may  have  guessed  something.  She  had  been 
told,  of  course,  long  since,  of  the  young  man's  visit,  and 
had  not  disapproved,  though  Christopher's  aunts,  duly 
informed  of  it  at  the  same  time,  —  after  the  event,  as  we 
know,  — shook  their  heads.  She  knew  more,  however,  than 
they,  and  had  the  two  and  two  in  her  possession  which  had 
but  to  be  put  together  to  make  visible  four.  She  alone 
knew,  perhaps,  why  Christopher's  mother,  who  had  never 
been  of  the  kind  to  speak  of  her  conquests,  had  fallen  into 
silence  when  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  was  mentioned.  Oh,  yes, 
Mrs.  Oxeter  may  have  guessed. 

"As  likely  as  not  she  reproaches  herself,"  she  thought, 
searching  her  daughter's  face  for  what  it  was  exactly  that 
she  fancied  had  come  into  it  lately, —  "as  likely  as  not  she 
thinks  she's  to  blame  for  his  lapses." 

The  house  seemed  suddenly  to  have  grown  silent.  It 
was  because  Christopher  was  at  school.  It  was  because — 
because  of  a  hundred  things.  Trimmer  was  sometimes  sent 


82  CHRISTOPHER 

for  to  bring  her  work  to  the  drawing-room,  or  Mrs.  Herrick 
would  take  hers  to  the  "nursery, "  where  Trimmer  still  sat. 

"I  miss  him  more  than  I  can  say." 

"So  do  I,  'm." 

"Even  his  troublesomeness." 

Trimmer  would  not  hear  that  Christopher  was,  or  could 
have  been,  troublesome. 

It  was  more  than  ever  a  house  of  women.  Much  sewing 
was  done.  Mrs.  Herrick  would  help  Trimmer  —  asking 
for  work. 

It  was  "Here,  Trimmer,  let  me  do  that,"  or  "Could  n't 
I?  How  can  you,  Trimmer!  You  know  I  can  hem!"  or 
"Trimmer,  if  there's  any  darning  to  do  I  feel  in  the  mood 
for  it." 

Christopher's  absences  were  explanation  enough  for 
good  Trimmer,  who  felt  at  a  loose  end  herself.  But  ex- 
planations were  excuses,  for  all  that,  and  Mrs.  Herrick 
knew  it.  Little  boys  at  their  first  school  do  not  work  for 
very  many  hours.  Christopher's  absences  were  not  so  pro- 
tracted as  really  to  have  left  the  day  empty. 

"  I  think  you  want  change,"  Mrs.  Oxetersaid  one  day  sud- 
denly, out  of  the  silence  which  hitherto  she  had  preserved. 

"I?"  said  Christopher's  mother. 

It  was  a  new  idea  to  her.  Moreover,  she  still  looked  upon 
Boulogne  itself  as  "change,"  forgetting  how  long  she  had 
been  there.  Change  —  of  air,  understood  —  always  meant 
in  domestic  parlance  Sea  Air;  —  if,  of  course,  it  did  not 
mean  Going  Abroad  —  and  Boulogne  was  both. 

Mrs.  Oxeter  watched  her. 

Laura  and  Catherine  were  out  and  her  favourite  daughter 
and  she  were  alone  in  the  Place  Moliere.  How  pretty  she 
was,  the  old  woman  thought  rather  anxiously. 

"What  makes  you  think  — ?" 

"My  dear,  I'm  your  mother." 

"But  I'm  not  ill." 

"No,  dear." 

"Then  why?" 


CHRISTOPHER  83 

"You're  young,"  said  Mrs.  Oxeter  shortly. 

"Mamma!" 

There  was  "How  did  you  know?"  in  the  tone.  She  was 
startled  —  scared  even.  Was  her  own  discovery  there  in 
her  face  for  others  to  read?  She  looked  about  her  a  little 
wildly. 

The  odd  ornaments  of  the  period  filled  the  room.  There 
was  a  hanging  screen  —  a  banner  worked  in 'Berlin  wools 

—  screwed  to  the  mantelpiece.   Upon  the  mantelpiece  were 
some  handsome  Dresden  figures,  but  each  was  under  a 
glass  shade.  There  were  antimacassars  on  the  backs  of  the 
chairs;  albums  on  the  tables;  beaded  footstools  on  the 
floor.   There  were  things  like  these  in  the  house  in  the  Rue 
Gil  Bias.  A  formal  period  in  which  to  make  any  discover- 
ies! The  sight  of  these  familiar  things  did  not  have  the 
effect  of  calming  her  wholly.    Was  she  already  out  of  key 
with  them?    Her  mother,  in  her  cap  with  the  mauve  rib- 
bons, fitted  perfectly  into  her  surroundings,  hallowed  them 
even,  gave  them  point. 

"Oh,  I  wish  I  were  like  you,"  she  said. 

"Towards  the  end  because  you  find  you  have  not  passed 
the  beginning?" 

She  had  not  known  that  she  was  going  to  speak. 

"I've  got  Christopher,"  she  heard  herself  saying  in  a 
low  voice,  "and  I  have  Christopher's  father,  even  if  he's 
dead.  He  is  n't  dead  to  me.  I  Ve  never  stopped  thinking 
about  him.  I  watched  Christopher  growing,  for  both  of 
us.  I  've  never  seen  him  in  a  new  suit  without  thinking 
what  Kit  would  have  thought  of  it.  I  am  growing  him  up, 
as  it  were,  for  his  father  —  under  his  father's  eyes,  I  've 
sometimes  thought.  It  has  n't  been  duty;  it's  been  love 

—  live  love,  I  tell  you,  mother.    And  now  at  the  sight  of 
some  one  I  have  n't  seen  for  years,  and  only  cared  for  then 
as  a  friend,  and  never  loved,  I  find  myself  no  stronger  than 
any  silly  schoolgirl." 

Mrs.  Oxeter  did  not  speak.  She  was  crocheting  an  anti- 
macassar, —  which  was  what  women  of  all  ages  did  then 


84  CHRISTOPHER 

for  the  occupation  of  their  hands  and  thoughts,  — exchang- 
ing  patterns  with  one  another,  learning  or  teaching  new 
stitches,  —  and  she  went  on  with  her  work,  though  it  is 
doubtful  whether  her  eyes  could  see  it. 

"It's  dreadful,"  Christopher's  mother  said, —  "dread- 
ful!" 

"It  is  n't  even  that  I  care  now,"  she  continued  after  a 
pause,  during  which  she  strove  to  control  herself.  ' '  When  I 
knew,  —  when  I  read  it  all  in  the  papers,  I  mean,  —  it 
seemed  so  far  off  that  it  hardly  concerned  me;  even  when  I 
realized  suddenly  that  they  were  here.  Why,  when  I  saw 
them  together  for  the  first  time  it  only  gave  me  a  little 
shock,  —  nothing  that  I  could  n't  bear.  I  kept  out  of  their 
way,  that  was  all,  and  it  seems  that  I  was  able  to  do  this 
effectually,  for  he  never  saw  me,  —  he  did  n't  expect  to, 
you  see,  —  and  he  did  n't  even  know  who  Christopher  was, 
the  day  he  was  so  kind  to  him.  It  was  n't  till  I  saw  him 
face  to  face,  and  talked  to  him,  and  saw  him  with  Christo- 
pher, —  you  don't  know  what  his  manner  is  with  a  child! 
—  no,  till  after  I  knew  that  he  knew  I  was  here  that  .  .  . 
that  this  came  to  me,  whatever  it  is.  It  was  n't  even  then, 
quite.  I  can't  explain.  Not,  I  think,  till  after  they  were 
gone.  It's  all  retrospective  in  a  way.  It's  —  oh,  how  can 
I  explain  when  I  don't  understand,  myself!" 

She  broke  off,  sobbing  now  in  earnest.  Mrs.  Oxeter 
pushed  her  work  aside  and  it  fell  to  the  floor,  there  to  lie 
unheeded.  She  leant  forward,  but  did  not  move  from  her 
chair. 

"I'm  —  I'm  so  ashamed,"  Christopher's  mother  said. 

"You've  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of,"  Mrs.  Oxeter  said 
gently. 

Christopher's  mother  shook  her  head.  "  Kit 's  being  dead 
makes  no  difference  — " 

"Ah,  my  dear,  my  dear!" 

"It  does  n't." 

"  I  did  n't  mean  that.  Do  you  think  you  need  tell  me  you 
loved  Christopher's  father?  Do  you  think  I  don't  know?  " 


CHRISTOPHER  85 

Anne  Herrick  nodded. 

"I  know  you  know,"  she  said  brokenly. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Oxeter,  "I  know  that  and  all  that  you 
could  tell  me.  I  have  n't  lived  to  my  age  without  knowing 
something  of  marriage.  I  've  seen  marriages,  and  perhaps 
one  marriage  —  and  that  was  yours.  That  was  yours, 
Anne.  But  sooner  or  later  we  Ve  all  got  to  learn  that  we  're 
human  —  with  all  the  human  failings  and  limitations  and 
instincts.  What  you  have  been  feeling  is  n't  a  reflection  upon 
your  loyalty  to  any  one.  Never  think  that.  God  made 
you,  my  dear,  and  be  very  sure  that  He  knows." 

It  was  the  informing  spirit  of  the  formal  room  which 
was  speaking,  but  with  something  more  than  the  common 
understanding  of  the  time. 

"It  isn't  even  exactly  John  Hemming,"  said  Christ- 
opher's mother  miserably.  "It  could  n't  be." 

"But  somehow  because  of  him." 

"Yes  —  other  things  helping." 

"  I  know.  It 's  just  youth,  dear,  as  I  said  first.  You  did  n't 
know  you  were  young." 

"It's  dreadful,"  said  Christopher's  mother. 

"Not  dreadful,"  said  hers  pityingly. 


CHAPTER  XI 

ANNE  HERRICK  felt  better  after  that.  Nothing  happened. 
What  could?  She  had  not  a  thought  of  John  Hemming  as 
an  individual.  He  stood  to  her  only  for  the  sum  of  the 
things  which  had  conspired  to  disturb  her.  That  she  should 
be  liable  to  disturbance  at  all  was  disturbing  enough  in 
itself.  If  she  was  indeed  young,  why  then  she  must  make 
haste  to  grow  older.  She  went  so  far  as  to  order  an  elderly 
garment  for  the  winter,  but,  to  the  satisfaction  of  her 
dressmaker,  who  had  protested  with  hands  and  shoulders, 
consented  at  last  to  countermand  it,  before  it  was  too  late. 

She  played,  however,  with  the  idea  of  Change.  An  ad- 
mission of  weakness?  An  admission  to  youth,  perhaps. 
Well,  if  you  were  young  .  .  . 

It  could  not  be  yet  because  of  Christopher,  whose  studies 
must  not  be  interfered  with ;  but  in  the  Christmas  holidays? 
How  would  you  like  to  go  to  London,  Christopher?  The 
Pantomime?  The  Crystal  Palace?  She  could  hear  her- 
self asking  him ;  but  did  not  ask  yet,  keeping  the  pleasure 
for  a  rainy  day. 

Autumn  helped  her,  fires,  the  shortening  days.  The  even- 
ings were  snug  now  with  a  book  from  Merridew's  to  be- 
guile you.  There  had  been  giants  on  the  earth  so  recently 
in  those  days,  and  there  were  still  giants.  Afterwards 
Christopher  was  to  thrill  to  the  names  he  heard  then  —  not 
for  their  own  sake  always,  but  for  the  glamour  which  cir- 
cumstances and  association  threw  over  them.  So  little 
earlier  in  the  century  and  these  had  been  new  books  by 
Old  Masters.  Think  of  it!  Not  that  Christopher  at  his  age 
was  in  a  position  to  think  of  it,  or  that  his  mother  even 
realised  it.  Books  were  books  to  her,  generally  enthralling, 
and,  with  the  fire  and  the  long  evenings,  a  refuge.  There 


CHRISTOPHER  87 

were  magazines,  too,  to  the  appearing  of  which  people 
with  time  on  their  hands,  or  even  without,  looked  forward 
from  month  to  month.  So  early  a  recollection  of  Chris- 
topher's was  the  yellow  cover  of  "  Cornhill,"and  an  adver- 
tisement of  Somebody's  Invalid  Chairs  intimately  con- 
nected with  it,  —  two  footmen  carrying  a  lady  upstairs, 
—  that  there  did  not  seem  to  be  a  time  when  that  period- 
ical had  not  a  place  in  his  life.  We  may  suppose  Christo- 
pher's mother,  who  had  doubtless  in  their  day  followed  the 
Adventures  of  Philip  on  His  Way  through  the  World, 
immersed  about  this  period  in  those  of  Harry  Richmond. 
Wonderful  days.  She  was  not  unhappy.  Change?  Yes, 
later,  perhaps;  in  the  holidays. 

Yet  with  no  fear  now  of  encountering  disturbance  on  her 
walks  she  knew  that  she  had  been  unhappy.  It  had  been 
unnerving  to  know  you  might  meet  unrest  at  every  corner. 
If  Christopher  had  felt  dismayed  at  the  sight  of  an  averted 
head,  what  of  her  who  had  decreed  that  it  must  be  so 
averted !  She  had  the  double  pain  —  nay,  the  treble.  The 
knowledge  that  the  coast  was  clear  had  not  freed  her  at 
first,  but  now  she  was  free. 

She  took  long  walks  —  with  Christopher  on  half-holi- 
days ;  often  alone ;  occasionally  with  Trimmer,  who,  though 
she  was  not  country-bred,  liked  to  step  out.  The  aunts 
were  not  for  more  than  pottering.  A  walk  to  them  was  to 
a  shop  in  the  town,  or  to  the  end  of  the  Port  and  back,  or, 
with  an  effort,  the  top  of  the  Grande  Rue  and  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  of  the  Petits  Arbres  under  the  Ramparts.  The 
Ramparts  they  thought  lonely,  dangerous  even,  as  per- 
haps indeed  they  were ;  and  the  long  stretch  of  the  autumn 
sands  too  windy.  It  was  never  too  windy  for  Christopher's 
mother. 

So  the  time  passed.  If  the  lonely  walks  seemed  purpose- 
less, she  called  in  thoughts  of  Christopher  to  help  her  — 
the  snug  evening,  the  lamp,  the  fire,  the  book.  With  glow- 
ing cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes  she  would  come  back  to  her 
son  and  her  fireside. 


88  CHRISTOPHER 

How  think  of  your  troubles  —  how  have  troubles  when 
there  was  Christopher?  He  was  growing  visibly.  Every 
day  was  declared  to  make  a  difference.  People  began  to 
say  of  him  to  her  that  he  must  be  becoming  a  companion, 
—  "quite  a  companion  to  you,"  the  exact  phrase,  —  as  if 
he  had  ever  been  anything  else !  One  of  these  days  he  would 
have  to  go  to  school  in  earnest,  and  then  —  what  then 
for  her  and  even  Trimmer?  Not  for  a  year  or  two  yet,  but 
some  day  for  all  that.  Well,  not  yet. 

"How  would  you  like  to  go  to  England  for  Christmas?" 

"England!" 

Christopher,  who  had  been  lying  on  the  rug,  looking  at 
pictures,  rolled  himself  to  sitting  position. 

"London,"  said  his  mother. 

"Mummy!" 

How  would  he  like  it?  He  flung  himself  upon  her,  danced 
round  the  room,  shouted,  sang.  London!  There  was  magic 
in  the  word  for  him  even  then.  He  had  spent  one  excited 
night  there  on  his  way  to  Boulogne,  in  lodgings  in  Ebury 
Street  —  the  lodgings,  indeed,  where  he  had  stayed  as  a 
baby  and  where  he  was  to  have  been  born  if  things  had 
not  taken  their  wayward  course  in  mid-ocean,  —  and  we 
may  suppose  that  he  had  registered  impressions.  Fog  was 
one  of  them.  A  misty  basement  to  which  he  had  pene- 
trated in  search  of  Trimmer,  another.  In  the  basement,  a 
servant  in  a  skimpy  cap,  who  sang,  "Father,  dear  father, 
come  home  with  me  now,"  and  gave  Trimmer  a  jug  of 
hot  water,  which  he  was  permitted  to  see  drawn  from  a  great 
black  kettle  which  sat  upon  a  glowing  fire.  Another  mem- 
ory was  of  a  toy  which  he  had  been  given  there  —  a  wind- 
mill which  turned  its  sails  when  you  turned  a  handle,  and 
into  an  upper  chamber  of  which,  from  a  little  hut  at  its 
foot,  a  procession  of  little  millers  (glued  to  a  tape)  made 
an  unending  ascent.  By  an  oversight  this  toy  had  been 
left  behind.  No  wonder  he  remembered  London.  Might  he 
run  and  tell  Trimmer? 

If  he  liked.  Trimmer  should  come,  too,  if_they  went. 


CHRISTOPHER  89 

It  was  n't  quite  settled,  but  it  was  most  likely.  He  scam- 
pered off.  His  mother  heard  him  bounding  up  the  stairs, 
calling  Trimmer  as  he  went.  She  heard  his  "Trimmer,  we  're 
going  to  London,"  and  could  guess  at  her  "  What,  Master 
Christopher?"  by  his  "We  are.  We  are  really.  Ask 
mother." 

Trimmer,  nearly  as  excited  as  he,  came  down,  apolo- 
gising, to  ask  there  and  then. 

"Oh,  'm,  really?"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Herrick  smiled. 

"I  think  so.  We're  going  to  think  about  it,  anyway. 
Don't  you  think  perhaps  a  little  change  would  be  good  for 
us  all?" 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,"  shouted  Christopher. 

"It  would  be  nice,  'm,"  said  Trimmer.  "Oh,  'm,  Eng- 
lish bacon  again.  Only  think! " 

"Why,  we  have  that  here." 

"And  made  as  it  were  into  a  regular  plat"  (Trimmer 
said  plar),  "in  the  cooking.  No.  English  bacon  cooked  by 
a  Christian,  I  mean.  Oh,  'm!  And  —  and  a  muffin!  To 
be  sure,  there's  Gregory's,  'm,  and  'owe's.  But  a  London 
muffin  with  the  bell  going  down  the  street.  Oh,  'm!" 

"I  see  we  shall  have  to  go,"  said  Mrs.  Herrick. 

After  that,  for  Christopher  and  for  Trimmer  it  was 
counting  the  days.  Plans  matured  rapidly  enough.  The 
time  was  fixed  for  the  week  before  Christmas.  Christmas 
itself  was  to  be  spent  at  Herrickswood  with  Christopher's 
other  grandmother,  who,  informed  of  the  projected  visit, 
issued  an  invitation  which  amounted  to  a  command. 
Herrickswood  first,  then,  with  a  night  in  London  on  the 
way,  and,  then  (Herrickswood  appeased),  an  unfettered 
fortnight  of  London :  such  were  the  plans  which  took  form 
while  days  were  marked  off  a  nursery  calendar  —  crossed 
out  with  wetted  pencil  —  and  water  ran  under  the  bridges. 
"Christmas  is  Coming," sang  Trimmer,  as, in  their  several 
hours,  she  had  sung  "Rocked  in  the  Cradle  of  the  Deep," 


90  CHRISTOPHER 

and  the  inflammatory  "Marseillaise";  "Christmas  will 
be  here  before  we  know  where  we  are." 

"We  are  going  to  England,  to  England,  to  England," 
sang  Christopher;  and  even  his  mother's  heart  sang 
Change. 

"You'll  have  to  be  very  good  at  Grandmamma  Her- 
rick's." 

"I  don't  mind,"  said  Christopher. 

He  was  ready  to  promise  anything.  Trimmer  was  best 
company  now.  She  was  going  home  for  a  few  days  in  the 
course  of  the  visit,  and  she  never  tired  of  telling  of  Birm- 
ingham, where  her  parents  lived. 

It  was  a  fine  city,  she  said,  something  like  London,  but 
nearly  in  the  heart  of  the  Black  Country.  The  Black 
Country!  Christopher  breathed  hard.  Ah,  he  might  well 
gasp.  To  go  through  that  at  night,  Trimmer  said,  in  the 
train,  —  between  Birmingham,  say,  and  Wolverhampton, 
—  that  was  travelling,  if  you  liked.  Every  chimney 
belched  forth  flame.  Near  and  far,  out  of  the  darkness,  you 
saw  the  great  furnaces  breathing.  She  did  n't  suppose 
there  was  anything  like  it  in  France.  It  always  "reminded  " 
Trimmer  of  hell.  Not  but  what  it  was  n't  very  pretty,  too. 

"It  all  seems  alive,"  she  said;  "like  Birmingham  itself. 
Everything  you  can  think  of  is  made  there.  And  all  lit  by 
gas." 

"The  houses?"  said  Christopher,  wide-eyed. 

At  Boulogne,  in  such  modest  homes  as  that  in  the  Rue 
Gil  Bias,  lamps  were  used  —  china  lamps,  burning  colza 
oil,  in  sitting-rooms,  and  little  benzoline  lamps  in  the  pas- 
sages and  bedrooms.  It  was  Christopher's  daily  pleasure 
to  watch  these  being  trimmed.  The  china  lamps  had  to 
be  wound  up  like  clocks  (fascinating !) ;  and  the  hand-lamps 
had  their  benzoline  poured  in  and  poured  out  of  them,  as 
much  as  was  good  for  them  being  retained  by  sponges 
under  wire  netting.  Very  engaging,  the  trimming  of  the 
benzoline  lamps! 

"The  houses?"  said  Christopher. 


CHRISTOPHER  91 

"Many  of  them.  The  streets,  anyway." 

It  was  n't  so  wonderful  then. 

"Just  like  here,"  said  Christopher. 

"There's  gas-works  near  my  'ome,"  said  Trimmer 
sentimentally,  "and  to  see  the  moon  over  them  on  a  sum- 
mer's night  —  oh,  there's  nothing  like  England." 

"Don't  you  wish  you  were  going?"  said  Christopher  to 
the  Sons  of  the  Nobility  and  Gentry  at  school. 

All  of  them  did;  one  or  two  were.  These  with  Chris- 
topher formed  a  little  envied  group,  puffed  up  with  pride. 

"I  expect  I  shall  have  a  lot  to  tell  you  when  I  come 
back,"  he  said  to  his  aunts. 

"No  doubt,  darling." 

"Don't  you  wish  you  — " 

"If  it  was  n't  so  cold,"  his  Aunt  Laura  said;  "at  any 
other  time  of  year,"  his  Aunt  Catherine.  They,  poor 
ladies,  were  indifferent  sailors. 

The  time  drew  nearer  and  near.  It  was  the  week  after 
next;  — it  was  next  week;  —  this;  —  it  was  to-morrow! 
Christopher  was  up  with  the  lark  —  the  winter  lark,  any- 
way. 

It  was  very  cold,  and  it  was  going  to  be  rough.  Every 
one  said  so.  The  aunts,  who  came  down  to  see  the  travellers 
off,  were  congratulating  themselves  in  earnest  that  they 
were  not  going.  They  hoped  every  few  moments  that 
their  sister  and  Christopher,  and  Trimmer  also,  were  well 
wrapped  up. 

"Have  you  rugs?"  said  Miss  Oxeter. 

"  Has  he  enough  over  his  chest?  "  asked  Miss  Catherine. 

"Plenty  of  rugs  —  the  woolly  one  and  my  big  plaid. 
Christopher's  all  right,  are  n't  you,  dear?" 

They  chose  their  places  on  deck.  Mrs.  Herrick  was  a  fair 
sailor  —  more  or  less  safe,  as  she  said,  if  she  had  air  and 
might  keep  still.  Christopher  had  yet  to  prove  his  mettle. 
Trimmer ,who  wanted  a  day  to  get  her  sea-legs,  preferred 
on  the  whole  to  go  below. 


92  CHRISTOPHER 

"It's  different  from  India,"  she  explained  cryptically. 

Christopher  in  his  "reefer"  coat  stumped  about  the 
deck  and  made  friends  with  the  sailors.  He  was  enormously 
interested  in  everything.  The  Paris  train  came  in,  and  the 
packet  filled  up  with  hurrying  laden  folk  with  anxious  eyes 
on  the  weather. 

"It's  going  to  be  very  rough,"  Christopher  assured  an 
old  lady  who  seemed  unable  to  get  an  answer  to  her  ques- 
tion. 

"Oh,  you  horrid  little  boy!"  she  said,  smiling. 

"  You  '11  see,"  said  Christopher  politely. 

Like  Trimmer,  she  went  below.  People  made  for  the 
best  places,  held,  or  surrendered  them.  The  timid  and 
the  uncertain — or  perhaps  the  too  certain  —  laid  them- 
selves out  and  closed  their  eyes.  In  the  saloon  into  which 
Christopher  peeped  on  his  voyages  of  discovery  there  was 
already  the  smell  of  brandy.  It  was  pleasant  to  get  back 
into  the  air.  Then  a  bell  rang  and  his  aunts  made  their 
hurried  adieux.  The  last  passenger  scrambled  on  board, 
the  gangways  were  drawn  up,  and  they  were  off. 

The  piers  slid  by  them. 

It  was  Ho,  for  old  England. 

It  was  then  that  Christopher's  mother  asked  herself, 
Why?  In  heaven's  name,  now  that  the  danger  was  over 
—  and  had  there  been  any  danger,  and  if  so  of  what? — in 
heaven's  name,  and  the  name  of  everything  else  that  might 
be  expected  to  understand  the  heart  of  woman  and  its 
incalculable  and  unfathomable  workings:  Why?  Why? 
Why? 


CHAPTER  XII 

CHRISTOPHER,  sobered  at  first  by  the  very  distressing 
sights  which  he  saw  about  him  after  the  bar  had  been 
crossed,  had  gravitated  to  his  mother's  side  and  there 
ensconced  himself  comfortably  under  the  large  shawl 
which  was  known  as  the  "plaid,"  from  its  odd  sponge-bag 
pattern.  There  he  stayed  for  some  time  with  the  wind  and 
spray  playing  on  his  chubby  face.  One  by  one  people  about 
him  were  led  below  or  staggered  to  the  companion-ladder 
in  a  nameless  race  with  time.  When,  however,  he  expe- 
rienced no  feelings  of  discomfort  himself,  and  could  thus  be 
quite  sure  that  he  was  not  going  to  be  ill,  his  energies  took 
him  to  his  feet  again.  He  went  and  watched  the  engines 
and  the  water  churned  by  the  paddle-wheels,  and  the  great 
waves  which  were  doing  such  dire  work  amongst  the  pas- 
sengers. He  would  have  gone  below  to  see  how  Trimmer 
was  getting  on,  but  that  his  mother,  with  some  compre- 
hension of  what  Trimmer's  feelings  might  be  just  then, 
had  told  him  she  thought  Trimmer  would  rather  be  left 
alone.  It  turned  out  afterwards  that  she  had  divined 
Trimmer's  state  only  too  accurately.  Mrs.  Herrick  her- 
self hoped,  and  expected,  to  be  able  to  hold  out. 

Christopher,  rather  proud  of  himself,  paced  the  deck 
with  the  hardy  and  intrepid,  or  stood  amongst  those  who 
kept  a  lookout,  caps  pulled  down  over  their  eyes  and  their 
ulsters  flapping  round  them.  Beads  of  spray  were  on  the 
rough  nap  of  his  coat,  and  on  his  face,  as  he  could  see  others 
upon  the  clothes  and  faces,  the  beards  and  moustaches,  of 
those  about  him.  His  lips  were  salt.  Little  sea-born  boy, 
he  felt  entirely  at  home.  The  pulsing  of  the  engines  was 
in  his  ears  as  not  so  long  ago,  though  he  had  no  knowledge 
of  this ;  it  had  smitten  on  the  unheeding  ears  of  his  baby- 


94 


CHRISTOPHER 


hood.  Every  loose  thing  flapped  for  his  pleasure  — his 
handkerchief  when  he  drew  that  from  his  pocket  to  wipe 
the  spray  from  his  eyes;  the  sailors'  oilskins;  a  newspaper 
caught  on  a  rail ;  a  lady's  veil.  The  very  noises  of  the  strain- 
ing vessel  were  for  his  enjoyment.  Every  now  and  then 
came  a  thud  and  the  splash  of  falling  water,  and  a  funny 
protesting  sound  from  the  funnel,  which  seemed,  shudder- 
ing, to  fight  for  a  moment  for  breath.  There  were  creak- 
ings  and  raspings,  swinging  sounds  like  the  sound  made  by 
the  ropes  of  his  swing  at  home  over  the  beam  in  the  gran- 
ary. The  wind  whistled.  It  was  as  if  he  had  always  known 
these  sounds. 

People  spoke  to  him.  Some  one  held  him  up  once  to  see 
the  cliffs,  but  that  was  n't  the  least  necessary,  for  the  ship 
herself  lifted  you  to  see  whatever  there  might  be  on  the 
skyline.  France  had  disappeared  long  since. 

"You're  a  fine  little  sailor,"  said  the  pair  of  arms. 

"I  was  n't  sure  if  I  should  be,"  said  Christopher,  "but 
I  was  born  at  sea." 

The  cliffs,  scarcely  visible  a  short  time  back,  began  to 
mark  themselves  definitely  on  the  horizon,  the  sea  heaving, 
tossing,  sliding,  between.  A  thin  gleam  of  sunlight  broke 
through  grey  clouds.  It  made  the  day  look  colder. 

Then  a  long  time  passed  during  which  no  particular 
progress  seemed  to  be  made,  and  then,  suddenly  as  it 
seemed,  gradually  as  it  was  in  reality,  there  came  a  moment 
when  simultaneously  the  passengers  and  the  sailors  began 
to  be  animated  by  something  which  spread  from  them 
through  the  ship.  Laden  people  with  pale  faces  —  a  faint 
pink  upon  the  cheekbones  —  began  to  struggle  up  from 
the  cabins.  The  enduring  on  deck  opened  their  eyes, 
roused  themselves,  looked  about  them.  Some  performed 
an  impromptu  toilet  or  collected  their  luggage.  As  if  to 
cheat  sufferers  of  the  sympathy  which  was  their  due  the 
sea  now  began  to  go  down.  No  one  on  this  side  would  know 
or  believe  .  .  . 

Christopher's  mother  welcomed  him  with  triumphant 


CHRISTOPHER  95 

eyes.  She  had  held  out,  but  could  not  pretend  to  have 
enjoyed  herself. 

"Poor  Trimmer!"  she  said. 

The  boat  entered  the  harbour  and  slid  to  her  moorings. 

It  was  a  very  wan  Trimmer  who  appeared  then  —  smil- 
ing resolutely,  however,  and  clasping  her  mistress's 
dressing-case. 

"You  ought  to  have  stopped  on  deck,  Trimmer," 
Christopher  told  her. 

"Did  I?"  said  Trimmer.   But  she  managed  to  smile. 

"One  Woe  is  past,  'm,"  she  said  as  she  landed.  "It's 
like  the  Book  of  Revelation.  And  English,  'm,  —  listen." 
(A  porter  had  said,  "Allow  me,  miss,"  another,  "'Urry  up 
with  them  things.")  "English!  Does  n't  it  do  your  heart 
good,  Master  Christopher?  I  could  kiss  them  all.  It's 
worth  Woes  — though,  mark  you,  I  was  near  wishing  we'd 
go  to  the  bottom.  And  that  more  than  once,"  she  added. 

"Poor  Trimmer,"  said  Mrs.  Herrick  again. 

Tea  in  the  train,  with  Protestant  English  buns  (for  the 
brioches  of  over  the  water),  revived  her;  revived  Christo- 
pher's mother;  refreshed  Christopher.  Every  one's  spirits 
rose  after  that.  The  colour  came  back  to  Trimmer's  cheeks. 
She  could  laugh  at  her  sufferings.  Christopher  had  never 
seen  his  mother  herself  in  such  spirits  before.  The  holiday 
mood  held  the  three  of  them. 

After  an  hour  of  laughter  and  talking,  they  slept. 

Victoria  was  Christopher's  next  conscious  impression. 
Here  were  most  of  the  laden  travellers;  the  man  who  had 
lifted  Christopher;  the  old  lady  to  whom  he  had  prophe- 
sied (she  had  forgiven  him  evidently,  for  she  nodded  to 
him  and  said,  "Did  I  call  you  horrid?  You  were  perfectly 
right");  the  ill,  the  faint-hearted,  the  intrepid.  There  was 
some  very  cold  waiting  to  the  tune  of  goodness  knows 
what-not  of  noise:  an  engine  letting  off  steam  —  to  take 
every  "S"  out  of  what  you  shouted  or  said;  the  rattle 
and  clatter  of  vans,  of  metal  on  wood  and  on  stone.  Through 


96  CHRISTOPHER 

the  hiss  and  the  clamour  would  sound  the  shrill  whistle  of 
an  out-going  train  with  the  loud  puff!  puff!  puff/  of  its 
effort  at  starting.  Stations,  Christopher  was  to  think  after- 
wards, were  noisier  when  he  and  the  world  were  younger. 
But  confusing  as  it  all  was,  there  was  something  stimulat- 
ing in  the  very  uproar. 

"This  is  London,"  everything  said;  "this  is  London." 

"  Keep  tight  hold  of  my  hand,"  said  Trimmer.  He  could 
hardly  hear  her.  "That's  ours,  'm.  Your  big  box.  And 
here  comes  mine.  Now  where  is  the  valise?  Oh,  this  crowd 
and  the  noise,  'm!  But  anyway  you  can  talk  to  the  porters 
in  your  own  language.  Keep  tight  hold  of  my  hand,  Mas- 
ter Christopher." 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  her  charge,  looking  this  way  and 
that  with  fascinated  eyes,  strained  at  his  leash. 

Never  had  he  seen  so  many  top-hats.  Even  the  station 
police  wore  them. 

"There's  the  valise,  'm.  There  by  that  green  carpet- 
bag —  no,  to  the  left.  Near  the  'ip  bath.  Now,  perhaps 
we  shall  get  along." 

Gone  everything  of  that  period  the  way  of  yesterday's 
roses  and  snows.  Christopher,  if  he  had  come  to  London 
for  nothing  else,  was  able  to  say  that  he  remembered  straw 
in  the  four-wheelers;  stone  paved  roads;  hatchments  on 
the  houses  of  the  noble  dead ;  the  milkmaid  —  often  elderly 
—  of  the  sturdy  legs,  and  the  pails  hanging  from  a  yoke ; 
many  obsolete  street-cries.  Not  all  these  did  he  see  or  hear 
on  the  short  drive  from  Victoria  to  Ebury  Street,  but, 
whenever  it  may  have  been  that  they  fixed  themselves 
upon  eye  or  ear,  they  stood  to  him  afterwards  as  present- 
ing the  London  of  these  remote,  delightful,  and  unsophis- 
ticated days.  There  were  still  "grandeurs."  Carriages 
were  "turnouts."  There  were  hammercloths.  Coachmen 
wore  wigs,  footmen  powder.  What  he  chiefly  noted  in  the 
cab  was  the  straw,  bits  of  which  he  picked  off  his  mother's 
dress;  and  the  deafening  rattle  of  the  windows  which  made 


CHRISTOPHER  97 

conversation  almost  impossible.  These  things  he  enjoyed 
all  the  same.  They  were  London. 

Never  would  he  forget  the  meal  which  was  ready  for  the 
travellers  very  soon  after  their  arrival.  Trimmer,  sharing 
it  for  the  occasion,  said  it  did  you  good  to  see  a  chop  that 
was  n't  a  cutlet,  and  a  vegetable  which  was  n't  a  legwme. 

"A  le-what?"  said  Christopher. 

"Legwme,"  said  Trimmer. 

Christopher  had  to  correct  her  accent  and  go  into  the 
question  of  accuracy.  If  what  Trimmer  called  legwme 
meant  vegetable,  how  could  a  vegetable  help  — 

To  Trimmer  it  was  a  question  of  the  cooking. 

"Oh,  you  two  funny  people,"  said  Christopher's  mother. 
"But  I  quite  see  what  you  mean,"  she  said  to  Trimmer. 

Trimmer  need  not  have  feared.  There  was  nothing 
French  about  the  cooking.  There  was  an  apple  tart  after 
the  chops;  cheese  after  that,  —  cheddar  for  Gruyere,  to 
draw  from  Trimmer  the  inevitable  comparison,  —  and 
with  this  meal  they  drank  tea!  No,  nothing  French  about 
Ebury  Street. 

Trimmer  retired  presently  to  unpack  for  the  night,  but 
returned  mysteriously  not  many  minutes  later. 

"What  do  you  think  I've  found?" 

Christopher  guessed  breathlessly.  He  had  hardly  let 
himself  hope. 

Trimmer  brought  what  she  held  from  behind  her  back. 

"The  landlady  kept  it  in  case  you  should  come  here 
again.  It's  not  even  broken." 

But  was  that  it?  —  that  his  cherished  memory?  He  got 
very  red,  and  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  He  had 
never  felt  so  shamed.  It  was  a  toy  for  a  babylj 

His  mother  played  with  it  after  he  had  gone  to  bed. 

He  had  hardly  recovered  from  his  discomfiture  when 
Trimmer  half  an  hour  later  came  back  to  fetch  him.  After 
the  adventurous  day  to  have  suffered  such  humiliation! 
He  still  played  with  toys.  He  would  have  admitted  that. 


98  CHRISTOPHER 

Had  he  not  ducks  and  fish  of  coloured  tin  (with  a  wonder- 
ful metallic  smell)  which  followed  a  magnet  about  in  a 
basin  of  water!  Scarcely  "older"  these.  He  had  leaden 
soldiers;  tops;  a  painted  ball  even.  But  there  was  a  differ- 
ence. If  Trimmer  had  even  not  treated  the  thing  as  a 
"surprise."  "What  do  you  think  I've  found,  Master 
Christopher?"  He  should  have  known  better  than  to 
respond  to  that.  Trimmer  should  know  better  than  to  lay 
such  a  trap  for  him  —  should  have  realised. 

But  London  came  to  his  rescue.  Unfamiliar  sounds 
reached  him  from  the  street;  the  song  of  a  drunken  man 
—  something  about  Champagne  Charlie;  the  rattle  of 
cabs  and  carriages;  a  postman's  knock;  the  cry  of  a  news- 
paper-boy; the  passing  of  many  feet.  London  was  going 
on  all  round  him.  It  was  in  the  flicker  of  the  firelight  on 
the  walls,  in  the  feel  of  the  strange  bed,  the  pleasant  rest- 
fulness  of  the  cold,  clean  sheets ;  the  very  griminess  of  the 
ceiling  which  wanted  whitewashing  so  badly.  It  was  in  the 
sound  of  a  piano  being  played  somewhere  not  far  off;  in 
the  drip  of  water  in  a  cistern  at  the  top  of  the  stairs ;  in  the 
candles  which  had  lighted  him  to  bed.  Above  all,  it  was  in 
a  rumble,  like  the  roar  of  the  waves  on  the  sands  at  Bou- 
logne, which  seemed  to  be  behind  every  other  sound  and 
which  went  on  all  the  time  without 'ceasing.  In  the  ab- 
sorbing interest  of  these  things  he  forgot  his  humiliation. 
He  could  feel  the  bed  going  up  and  down  now,  like  the 
boat,  but  very  pleasantly.  It  was  rocking  him  gently  to 
sleep. 

He  woke  to  see  his  mother  bending  over  him. 

"It  shows  how  much  older  and  bigger  I  am,  anyway." 

"What  does,  darling?" 

He  could  n't  remember,  and  was  asleep  again. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

HERRICKSWOOD  had  been  a  big  place  in  its  time,  and  even 
now,  shorn  of  most  of  its  acres  by  the  extravagance  of  dead 
and  gone  Herricks,  was  of  considerable  importance  in  its 
own  county.  It  was  of  paramount  importance  in  the  eyes 
of  its  owner.  There  had  always  been  Herricks  of  Herricks- 
wood.  It  was  a  big  square  house  of  imposing  front  and  the 
many  charming  inconveniences  incidental  to  its  age.  There 
was  tapestry  and  there  were  draughts  in  many  of  the  bed- 
rooms. The  house  stood  in  a  small  park,  which,  in  the  days 
of  its  former  glories,  had  been  a  big  one.  There  had  been 
deer  in  the  reign  of  Christopher's  grandfather,  but  were 
none  now.  There  were  fine  trees:  beech,  chestnut,  oak. 
An  avenue  of  the  second  led  from  the  nearer  of  the  two 
lodge  gates  to  the  house.  The  road  from  the  farther,  by 
which,  as  the  more  direct  from  the  station,  our  travellers 
were  driven  upon  their  arrival,  ran  through  bracken- 
covered  slopes,  past  a  lake,  a  larch  plantation,  a  round 
building  which  had  been  kennels  and  was  now  empty,  and 
presently  a  little  private  chapel. 

Herrickswood,  beautiful  as  it  was,  always  oppressed 
Christopher's  mother,  who  knew  that  it  was  by  reason  of 
its  existence  —  since  everything  else  was  equal  and  the 
Oxeters  as  old  a  family  as  the  Herricks  —  that  she  had  not 
been  thought  a  good  match  for  Christopher's  father. 
Herrickswood  was  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  the 
Herricks'  position.  There,  as  Squires,  Justices  of  the  Peace, 
Guardians  of  the  Poor,  as  High  Sheriffs  from  time  to  time, 
or  Lord  Lieutenants  of  their  county,  they  had  lived,  doing 
well  or  ill,  —  ill  as  often  as  not,  —  but  in  the  sight  of  all. 
The  Oxeters,  on  the  other  hand,  if  of  a  stock  no  less  respect- 
able, had  no  such  sign.  Granny  Oxeter  used  to  say  with 


ioo  CHRISTOPHER 

a  chuckle  that  her  daughters  were  privileged  to  wear 
cousins'  mourning  for  half  the  deaths  recordable  in  Burke 
and  Debrett,  but  much  good  might  that  do  them!  As  a 
family  the  Oxeters  were  of  that  large  company  of  the  well- 
born of  whom  it  might  be  said  that  they  are  perpetually 
the  collaterals  of  the  great.  Their  men  many  the  more 
obscure  of  their  social  equals,  or  frankly  "beneath"  them; 
their  women,  younger  sons.  Christopher's  father  was  a 
younger  son;  his  mother,  herself  daughter  of  a  younger 
son  of  the  younger  son  of  a  peer,  had  so  far  carried  out  the 
traditions  of  her  own  peculiar  state. 

Mrs.  Herrick  met  her  daughter-in-law  and  her  grandson 
in  the  frowning  hall,  which,  as  Anne  Herrick  felt  and  had 
always  felt,  need  not  so  have  frowned.  A  little  less  aus- 
terity in  the  decorations,  and  the  hall  at  Herrickswood 
might  have  welcomed  all  comers  smiling.  If,  however,  the 
hall  frowned,  Christopher's  Herrick  grandmother  upon 
this  occasion  did  not.  She  gave  the  newcomers  warm  if 
short  welcome,  and  led  them  into  her  sitting-room.  She 
walked  with  a  stick. 

Christopher,  observing  her  and  everything  else,  followed 
her  solemnly  in  the  wake  of  his  mother,  while  Trimmer, 
casting  a  glance  after  them,  disappeared  with  the  servants 
through  a  large  baize-covered  door  at  the  end  of  a  passage. 

There  was  nothing  austere  about  the  room  into  which 
Mrs.  Herrick  ushered  her  guests.  A  bright  fire  burned  in 
the  grate  and  twinkled  in  the  glass  in  the  frames  of  the 
many  pictures  on  the  walls,  and  in  and  on  the  surfaces  of 
many  shining  things. 

Mrs.  Herrick  pulled  an  armchair  round  to  the  fire  for 
her  daughter-in-law. 

"Now,  let  me  look  at  you,"  she  said  to  Christopher. 

He  submitted  to  her  scrutiny  with  not  more  flinching 
than  might  be. 

"He's  more  like  you  than  like  us,"  his  grandmother 
said  at  length,  without  withdrawing  sharp  eyes  from  his 
face. 


CHRISTOPHER  101 

"We  think  him  like  his  father,"  Christopher's  mother 
said. 

"Well,  perhaps." 

"His  eyes." 

"He  has  your  mouth.  None  the  worse  for  that,  eh, 
Christopher?" 

Christopher  said,  "No." 

She  did  not  say  whether  what  she  saw  pleased  her,  but 
signing  him  to  a  stool  by  the  fire,  turned  to  her  daughter- 
in-law  and  asked  about  her  journey. 

The  butler  and  a  footman  appeared  now  with  cakes  and 
wine.  Christopher  was  bidden  to  eat,  which  he  did  with 
good  appetite.  The  butler  was  told  to  pour  out  half-a- 
glass  of  sherry  for  him.  He  drank  it,  coughing  a  little. 
After  that  he  was  given  some  Views  of  the  Rhine  to  look 
at,  and  by  the  time  he  had  gone  through  them  twice  he 
was  ready  for  some  other  diversion.  This  was  not  imme- 
diately forthcoming,  so  he  wandered  round  the  room; 
looking  at  things  which  he  wanted  to  touch  but  did  not, 
and  being  careful  to  make  no  noise. 

"He  will  dine  with  us  to-night,  Anne." 

"If  you're  good  enough  to  let  him." 

"Pooh!  Would  you  like  to,  Christopher?" 

Christopher  said, "Yes,"  and  added  "Please"  for  man- 
ners. 

"Well,  then,  now  you'd  like  to  see  your  rooms.  Will 
you  ring  that  bell,  Christopher?" 

Very  wide  stone  steps  led  from  the  austere  hall  to  the 
landing  above.  It  seemed  to  Christopher  that  miles  of 
passage  had  to  be  passed  before  the  room  was  reached  in 
which  Trimmer  was  now  unpacking. 

"The  young  gentleman's  room  is  next  door,"  said  the 
butler,  "the  dressing-room,  as  it  were,  to  yours,  'm,"  and 
withdrew. 

Trimmer  told  of  the  splendours  below.  It  was  all  much 
as  she  remembered  it  on  an  earlier  visit  years  ago,  only 


102  CHRISTOPHER 

"grander"  if  anything.  Mrs.  Herrick's  maid  Ollenshaw 
was  still  in  office,  and,  would  you  believe,  wore  a  silk  gown, 
if  you  please,  'm.  She  was  a  very  haughty  person,  but 
-had  not,  it  seemed,  forgotten  Trimmer,  to  whom  she  was 
all  that  was  affable — "affability  impersonified,"  Trimmer 
said.  She  had  a  sitting-room  to  herself  now  —  with  a  piano 
in  it;  at  least,  one  of  those  old-fashioned  tall  ones,  with 
faded  silk  spreading  in  rays  like,  from  a  rosette  in  the 
middle.  It  had  yellow  keys  —  the  sort,  Trimmer  said, 
amongst  which  some  were  generally  found  to  be  dumb. 
But  it  gave  the  room  "a  hair,  as  you  might  suppose." 
There  was  a  sofa,  too,  on  which  Trimmer  and  Ollenshaw 
had  sat  while  they  drank  their  tea  and  ate  'ot  buttered 
toast,  which  was  brought  to  them  by  one  of  the  servants. 
Trimmer  shaking  out  dresses,  patting,  folding,  and  putting 
away,  could  not,  she  said,  help  but  smile  as  she  thought 
of  it. 

"There  we  sat,  'm,  for  all  the  world  like  imitation  ladies. 
It  was,  'A  little  more  tea,  Miss  Trimmer,'  and,  'May  I 
pass  you  the  toast?'  Very  nice  for  a  change,  'm,  but  en- 
erviating,  I  should  say,  in  the  long  run." 

She  lifted  back  the  tray  of  her  mistress's  box. 

"Most  of  the  old  servants  are  still  here.  The  old  butler 
only  died  last  year,  and  the  coachman  who  was  here  before, 
he 's  been  pensioned  off.  But  Mrs.  Wellington  is  still  here, 
'm,  —  the  housekeeper,  if  you  remember,  and  the  cook, 
and  the  head-housemaid  —  who  must  be  nearly  sixty. 
And  they,  'm,  are  all  agog  to  see  Master  Christopher,  'm." 

Trimmer  lowered  her  voice  for  what  she  said  next. 

"Mr.  Stephen,  it  seems,  has  n't  been  seen  or  been  heard 
of  for  six  months." 

Christopher,  looking  round,  saw  his  mother  frown  at 
her. 

He  found  his  grandmother's  eyes  upon  him  more  than 
once  at  dinner,  which  was  rather  a  solemn  meal.  His  mother 
did  most  of  the  talking.  His  grandmother  carved.  Chris- 
topher, a  little  awed  by  the  grave  butler  and  the  two  foot- 


CHRISTOPHER  103 

men  with  the  wooden  faces,  did  not  have  to  be  told  that 
boys  should  be  seen  and  not  heard. 

He  said,  "Yes,  please,"  to  many  excellent  things,  and  did 
not  dispute  a  vicarious  "  No,  thank  you,"  of  his  mother's 
to  some  tempting  dish  which  had  paused  deferentially  at 
his  elbow  upon  its  second  round.  It  was  then  that  some- 
thing happened  —  the  smallest  thing  in  the  world. 

"H'm,"  said  his  grandmother. 

That  brought  a  "Yes?"  from  his  mother. 

"I  said  'H'm,' "  said  his  grandmother,  "and  meant  it. 
He's  not  the  fighter  his  father  was." 

His  mother  smiled  a  little  anxiously. 

"He's  on  his  best  behaviour,"  she  said;  "aren't  you, 
Christopher?" 

Christopher  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"Needn't  I  be?   Have  n't  I  got  to?" 

His  grandmother  laughed  out. 

"I'd  like  some  more,  then,"  he  said  boldly. 

Was  it  instinct  or  young  memory  which  had  taught 
him  how  to  treat  her? 

His  grandmother  said  nothing,  but  something  was  re- 
laxed. He  felt  it.  His  mother  felt  it.  After  that  he  talked 
as  much  as  he  would  have  talked  at  home.  Dinner  lost 
its  portentous  solemnity. 

Long  after  Christopher  had  gone  to  bed  his  grand- 
mother and  his  mother  sat  talking. 

"Your  letter  telling  me  you  were  coming  to  England  nearly 
crossed  one  from  me.  I  was  on  the  point  of  writing  to  you." 

Anne  glanced  up  from  her  work.  She,  like  Mrs.  Oxeter, 
was  crocheting  an  antimacassar. 

"  It  was  time  I  saw  my  grandson,"  said  Mrs.  Herrick. 
She  was  a  fierce-looking  old  woman  on  whose  face  time 
had  written  inscrutable  things. 

"  I  'm  so  glad  you  should  see  him  now.  I  've  wanted  you 
to  see  him.  I  was  waiting,  in  a  way.  I  did  n't  think  you 
liked  children." 


104  CHRISTOPHER 

"I  don't." 

They  were  back  now  in  the  room  into  which  the  two  had 
been  ushered  upon  their  arrival.  Christopher's  grand- 
mother looked  at  the  fire,  which,  though  it  had  evidently 
just  been  made  up,  did  not  seem  to  please  her.  She  put 
on  a  loose  velvet  glove  which  hung  by  a  loop  from  a  nail 
in  the  wall,  and  taking  up  the  poker,  poked,  raked  out, 
and  rearranged  the  coals.  She  threw  another  log  on  to  them 
from  a  box  which  stood  beside  the  hearth. 

"I  don't  like  children,"  she  repeated.  "I  never  did  — 
except  my  own —  and  they  grew  up." 

It  may  have  been  a  little  movement  which  her  daughter- 
in-law  made  which  caused  her  to  consider  her  words. 

She  took  off  the  glove  and  hung  it  up  in  its  place  over  the 
coal-box. 

"I'm  alone  in  my  old  age,"  she  said  grimly.  "One  of 
my  sons  is  dead  —  oh,  I  know  I  did  n't  entirely  want  him 
to  marry  you.  I  admit  it.  But  you  made  him  a  good  wife, 
and  I 'm  glad  now  that  he  did  marry  you.  He's  dead  for 
all  that  —  and  the  other  might  just  as  well  be." 

The  old  eyes  blazed  suddenly  as  they  looked  into  the 
fire.  The  fingers  with  the  many  rings  as  suddenly  were 
clenched,  and  Anne  Herrick,  by  the  flashing  of  the  stones, 
saw  how  they  were  trembling. 

"Let  him  take  care,  though,"  she  heard  her  mother-in- 
law  add  under  her  breath.  "Let  him  take  care." 

She  made  no  comment.  She  could  not,  as  Christopher's 
mother,  discuss  Christopher's  ne'er-do-well  uncle  with 
one  who  not  only  was  incensed,  but  had  so  much  in  her 
power.  In  spite  of  her,  her  heart  beat  a  little  quicker,  for 
never  before  had  the  thought  of  Herrickswood  in  connec- 
tion with  her  own  son  crossed  her  mind.  That  Mrs.  Her- 
rick by  the  foresight  of  her  husband  had  the  disposal  of 
it  at  her  unfettered  pleasure  she  had  always  known;  but 
that  she  might  ever  think  of  passing  over  her  own  son, 
was  a  thought  which  had  never  so  much  as  occurred  to 
her. 


CHRISTOPHER  105 

"I've  paid  his  debts  for  him  three  times,"  the  angry 
old  woman  was  saying.  "I've  kept  him  out  of  the  bank- 
ruptcy court,  and  for  what?  To  contribute  to  the  support 
of  disreputable  women,  to  enable  him  to  bet  and  gamble 
and  drink,  and  for  my  pains  to  be  left  for  months  at  a  time 
without  so  much  as  his  address." 

She  paused,  and  a  little  gleam  of  humour  shot  into  the 
sharp  eyes. 

"That's,  all  the  same,  his  one  redeeming  virtue  —  the 
one  thing  that  keeps  his  name  in  my  will  at  all:  his  in- 
difference to  my  hold  over  him.  He  makes  it  no  hold,  and 
so  the  strongest.  He  knows  what  I  can  do  if  I  choose,  and 
he  has  the  impudent  courage  to  flout  me.  There  must 
be  some  wisdom  in  a  man  who  can  be  such  a  fool." 

"I  always  liked  him,"  said  Christopher's  mother. 

"All  women  do.  Good  women  as  well  as  bad  —  good- 
ness knows  you're  good  enough,  dear.  That's,  in  a  way, 
what's  the  matter  with  you." 

Christopher's  mother  laughed  —  relieved  that  she  might 
show  colour  in  a  situation  which  had  demanded  neutrality, 
at  least,  from  her. 

"A  spice  of  the  Devil  would  have  done  you  no  harm  — 
a  little  more  of  the  guile  of  the  serpent.  If  Christopher 
has  either,  he  won't  get  it  from  you." 

"He's  not  such  a  paragon,"  said  his  mother.  She  smiled 
at  the  thought  of  this  being  praise. 

"I  hope  not,  but  I  hope  more  that  he'll  never  be  any- 
thing else  in  essentials." 

What  these  might  be  she  did  not  say. 

"What  are  his  tastes?"  she  asked  abruptly. 

Anne  Herrick  felt  herself  nonplussed.  His  tastes?  How 
could  she  say?  —  though  she  thought  she  knew.  How  ex- 
plain to  this  stern  old  woman,  who  expected  men  to  be 
soldiers,  that  she  believed  Christopher  to  be  many  other 
things?  She  did  not  forget  the  wartime  when  Christopher 
had  been  martial  with  the  most  martial.  She  did  not  for- 
get many  a  little  incident  in  his  little  career  which  showed 


106  CHRISTOPHER 

that  he  was  not  wanting  in  pluck  —  facings  of  pain,  the 
dentist,  perhaps,  facings  of  what  had  to  be  faced,  but 
might  have  been  shied  at.  These  things  did  not  count. 
She  did  not  think  he  was  a  soldier.  His  tastes?  Every- 
thing was  his  taste.  A  walk  with  Christopher  would  have 
told  you  more  than  she  could  tell. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  at  last.  "He's  interested  in 
everything."  (She  was  using,  though  she  did  not  know  it, 
almost  the  words  Trimmer  had  used  to  the  piano-tuner, 
when  she  in  turn  had  tried  to  express  Christopher.) 
"There 's  nothing  that  he  does  n't  see.  He  sees  pictures." 

"An  artist?" 

Mrs.  Herrick's  tone  was  tolerant  in  a  contemptuous 
sort  of  way. 

"  I  don't  know.  He's  taking  in  all  the  time.  Taking  in 
everything  he  hears  and  smells  and  sees  and  touches — " 

"And  tastes,  I  hope.  Give  him  a  good  appetite.  It's 
healthier  then." 

His  mother  nodded. 

"He  uses  all  his  senses  for  what  he  is  absorbing." 

"Well,  if  the  rarest  of  all  —  the  one  we  call  common  — 
is  not  left  out  —  " 

Anne  Herrick  smiled. 

"  I  don't  think  it  is.  He  has  plenty  of  gumption.  But 
if  he  sees  things  as  they  are,  he  also  sees  them  as  they 
never  were  and  never  will  be." 

"You're  drawing  an  artist,  I  misdoubt  me." 

"  He  has  n't  an  idea  of  drawing.  He  draws,  of  course, 
—  but  only  what  all  children  draw,  —  trains,  and  houses, 
and  unrecognisable  horses.  Not  a  bit  better  than  any  other 
boy  of  his  age.  Not  a  painter,  I  think,  if  you  mean  that.  I 
don't  understand  these  things,  but  it  seems  to  me  some- 
times that  with  so  much  taking-in,  one  of  these  days  there 
will  have  to  be  some  sort  of  giving-out." 

"An  artist,"  Christopher's  grandmother  said  again. 
"I  did  n't  mean  a  painter." 

There  was  a  pause  after  that. 


CHRISTOPHER  107 

"  I  suppose  you  know  that  it's  putting  him  outside  life." 

"Or  in  the  heart  of  it." 

"So  deeply  in  the  heart  of  it,  then,  that  it  will  keep  the 
breath  from  his  nostrils.  Well,  it's  all  as  it  will  be.  Neither 
you  nor  I  will  have  any  voice  in  what  was  settled  from  the 
beginning  of  time.  I  hope  you  may  be  wrong  —  for  his 
sake.  But  meanwhile  I  could  find  it  in  me  to  wish  something 
which  may  surprise  you." 

Anne  Herrick  looked  at  her,  speculating  as  to  what  that 
might  be. 

Mrs.  Herrick  the  elder  did  not  answer  at  once.  She 
looked  at  her  daughter-in-law  much  as  she  had  looked  at 
Christopher.  Anne  let  her  eyes  fall  to  her  work  and  went 
on  with  it.  Her  crochet-hook  pecked  away  at  the  rose 
she  was  making.  She  felt  the  old  woman's  eyes  on  her 
hair,  on  her  cheeks,  on  her  eyelids;  most  of  all  on  her 
eyelids.  She  was  not  as  strong  as  Christopher,  who  had 
hardly  flinched. 

"Well?"  she  said  at  last. 

"It  isn't  because  you're  so  pretty,  and  prettiness 
shouldn't  be  wasted.  I  daresay  you  scarcely  know  how 
pretty  you  are.  And  it  is  n't  because  you  're  young,  though 
you  are  amazingly  young  when  I  look  at  you  — " 

"Oh,  please." 

Anne  Herrick  could  not  stifle  that  little  cry. 

"It  is  n't  for  your  sake  at  all,"  Mrs.  Herrick  continued 
relentlessly.  "Though  it  might  be  and  might  very  well 
be,  it  is  n't.  It's  Christopher  I  'm  thinking  about." 

"  I  know  what  you  're  going  to  say  — 

"Well,  then,  has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  a  house- 
hold of  women  is  n't  the  best  environment  for  him  ? 
We're  narrow,  the  broadest  of  us,  circumscribed,  hemmed 
in  as  much  by  our  own  ignorances  as  by  anything  else. 
It  won't  always  be  so,  perhaps.  There  are  signs  even  now 
of  a  breaking-down  of  some  of  the  barriers.  Whether  that 
will  be  good  for  us  I  for  one  am  not  prepared  to  say.  The 
fact  remains  that  we're  not  called  the  weaker  sex  for 


io8  CHRISTOPHER 

nothing.  Well,  there  are  weaknesses  that  I  pride  myself 
upon  not  having,  and  this  is  one  of  them.  Most  women 
think  that  their  sons'  widows  should  be  widows  indeed. 
Well,  I  don't,  and  if  ever — " 

"Ah,  please  — " 

"Nonsense,  you're  a  young  woman." 

That  was  what  Christopher's  mother  had  so  lately  dis- 
covered, and  what  for  that  very  reason  she  did  not  want  to 
hear.  She  held  her  breath  for  the  strangeness  of  the  mo- 
ment. 

"I'm  thinking  of  Christopher.  Where  there's  a  boy 
there  should  be  a  man.  There's  nothing  — " 

"Don't  say  '  like  a  man  in  the  house,'"  Anne  implored, 
laughing  a  little  hysterically. 

"Well,  that's  what  I  was  going  to  say,"  said  Chris- 
topher's grandmother. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  next  day  was  Christmas  Eve.  There  had  been  a  very 
hard  frost  in  the  night  and  every  puddle  was  frozen. 
Christopher  may  be  said  to  have  spent  most  of  the  morning 
breaking  cat-ice  with  a  sturdy  boot,  and  canvassing  for 
votes  for  hard  weather.  He  was  hoping  for  snow,  though 
at  breakfast  his  grandmother  had  said  fervently,  "The 
Lord  forbid!"  If  not  snow,  then  a  spell  of  frost  for  sliding 
—  perhaps  even  for  learning  to  skate.  The  frost,  Robson, 
the  butler,  and  Mrs.  Wellington,  the  housekeeper,  seemed 
disposed,  though  a  little  too  indulgently,  to  promise  him.  It 
appeared  to  be  because  boys  would  be  boys  —  or,  more 
aptly,  young  gentlemen,  young  gentlemen  —  that  they 
supposed,  with  obliging  smiles,  that  he  must  have  it.  His 
mother,  who,  in  her  heart,  was  rather  wishing  too  that  the 
frost  might  last,  went  down  with  him  to  look  at  the  lake. 
She  had  not  skated  for  many  years,  but  used  to  skate  — 
when  she  was  "young,"  as  a  short  time  back  she  would 
have  expressed  it  —  when  she  was  a  girl,  before  she  mar- 
ried, that  is,  as,  for  some  reason  or  another,  she  was  moved 
to  put  it  now. 

The  lake  was  well  covered.  Clean  ice  shimmered  in  clear 
sunlight.  Already,  private  as  the  park  was,  with  only  a 
right  of  way  across  it  by  a  distant  footpath,  the  stone  or  two 
of  wantonness  or  active  mischief  lay  upon  the  ice.  But 
what  ice  if  the  frost  held  out!  She  felt  excited  and  again 
a  little  bit  alarmed. 

What  was  this  conspiracy  that  insisted  on  her  youth? 
The  very  sight  of  the  ice  joined  it — the  sharp,  stimulating 
air.  What,  too,  was  this  mystery  of  recurring  phrases? 
Words  seemed  to  group  themselves  arbitrarily  on  the 
tongue  to  disconcert  her.  There 's  nothing  like  .  .  .  Could 


no  CHRISTOPHER 

any  reiteration  of  chance  words  be  stranger?  Were  they 
chance  words  at  all  which  had  it  in  them  so  to  force  them- 
selves upon  her?  Christopher,  even,  —  Christopher,  all 
unconscious,  passive,  innocent  of  any  design  soever,  — 
had  been  drawn  into  the  disturbing  argument  they  pressed. 
Had  she  fled  to  England  but  to  be  confronted  with  them  in 
a  new  and  strengthened  guise?  Something  seemed  to  her 
to  be  closing  round  her. 

"Come  here,  Christopher." 

He  came  —  from  breaking  cat-ice.  A  cart-road,  deeply 
rutted,  skirted  the  lake,  and  the  ruts  were  ridged  as  with 
glass  near  where  she  was  standing.  He  could  break  to 
his  heart's  content.  He  held  a  bit  of  ice  in  each  hand.  His 
cheeks  were  glowing. 

"What,  mother?" 

She  did  not  know,  and  made  some  excuse  —  told  him 
to  look  at  a  robin  which  had  alighted  almost  at  her  feet. 

"Isn't  he  tame?" 

She  had  meant  to  ask  him  questions.  Some  impulse, 
which  as  suddenly  as  it  came  deserted  her,  had  prompted 
her  to  ask  him  whether  he  was  happy.  Was  his  life  happy 
—  his  normal  life  at  Boulogne  with  only  herself  and  Trim- 
mer for  everyday  companionship?  For  change  and  inter- 
change of  ideas  outside  his  home,  were  his  schoolfellows 
enough  for  him?  What  good  to  ask  him?  Of  course  he 
was  happy ;  and  how  could  he  know?  If  he  were  not  happy, 
even,  how  could  he  know? 

The  robin  took  flight  and  Christopher  went  back  to  his 
cat-ice. 

But  even  as  she  dismissed  her  questions  came  a  recollec- 
tion to  answer  them.  Christopher  bending  over  a  rut  had 
unconsciously  put  himself  into  the  first  position  for  one  of 
the  acrobatic  feats  which  he  used  to  perform  with  poor 
Pierre  About  in  the  magic  days  of  the  billeting.  Monsieur 
Christophe  was  told  to  stoop  down,  —  lower,  lower,  — 
now  from  between  his  knees  to  give  Pierre,  who  stood  be- 
hind him,  his  hands,  so:  then,  Houp-la!  Houp!  had  been 


CHRISTOPHER  in 

made  to  turn  a  somersault.  It  was  Pierre,  of  course,  who 
did  the  performing.  Christopher  had  only  to  have  faith; 
not  to  be  frightened.  There  were  other  evolutions  through 
which  he  was  put.  He  had  stood  on  Pierre's  shoulders  one 
day,  held  only  (though  Jean  Poulard  was  there  ready,  if  he 
should  fall,  to  catch  him)  —  held  only  by  Pierre's  hands  at 
the  back  of  his  heels.  It  had  been  Christopher's  mother 
that  day  who  was  frightened,  not  Christopher,  —  though 
he  was  not  sorry  to  come  down. 

That  was  life,  perhaps.  That  was  life  for  a  boy.  Happy, 
healthy,  natural.  She  had  only  to  think  of  Christopher  as 
he  had  borne  himself  then  to  realise  that,  full  as  his  young 
life  might  be,  it  had  been  fuller  for  this  time  than  it  had 
been  before  or  since.  Yet,  when  all  was  said,  how  do  better 
than  well? 

She  laughed  to  herself  presently,  her  spirits  rising  again 
as  she  raced  him  towards  the  house. 

"We  shall  be  skating  in  three  days,"  she  said,  "and  then 
you  won't  beat  me." 

"Well,  I've  got  to  learn,"  he  said.  "Then  I  shall  beat 
you,  all  right." 

"Shall  you  indeed,  sir?  And  why,  pray?" 
"  Oh,  well,"  said  Christopher,  "  I  'm  —  well,  you  're  not  a 
boy,  you  see." 

"And  all  boys  can  beat  their  mothers?" 
"On  their  legs,"  said  Christopher,  "of  course." 
Which  was  all  as  it  should  be.  They  reached  the  house 
laughing  and  breathless. 

Mrs.  Herrick  the  elder  did  not  reopen  the  subject  of 
her  talk  with  her  daughter-in-law  that  day  —  nor  would, 
perhaps,  during  the  rest  of  the  visit.  She  had  said  her  say, 
maybe,  and  would  leave  her  words  to  soak  in.  Anne,  en- 
joying herself,  in  spite  of  misgivings  and  forebodings,  more 
than  she  had  expected,  and  somehow  no  longer  "oppressed  " 
by  Herrickswood,  gave  herself  up  to  the  very  simple 
pleasures  of  the  moment,  and  hoped  so.  She  went  for  a 


112  CHRISTOPHER 

drive  in  the  afternoon  and  assisted  Mrs.  Herrick  in  the 
distribution  of  her  rather  fierce  Christmas  doles. 

"Here's  a  pound  of  tea  and  a  pound  of  sugar,  Jane 
Jarman,  and  a  Happy  Christmas  to  you,  and  don't  let  me 
hear  of  your  husband  being  drunk  again,  or  tell  him  I  '11 
look  out  for  a  new  woodman." 

"Yes,  'm.  Yes,  'm;  thank  you  kindly,  and  no,  'm,  I'm 
sure.  And  I'm  sure  I  'ope — " 

"Yes,  Jane  Jarman,  I  know.  Well,  just  tell  him.  And 
don't  let  the  tea  stoo.  Good-day  to  you." 

"Good-day,  'm,  and  I'm  sure  I  'ope  .  .  ." 

"The  cottage  by  the  forge,  James." 

Or,  "Here's  half-a-crown,  Mrs.  Holden,  and  what's  this 
I  hear  about  your  daughter?  Let  her  understand  once  for 
all  that  I  won't  have  any  scandal.  If  you  can't  control 
your  children,  you  Ve  no  right  to  have  had  any.  Not  a 
word.  I  won't  listen  to  any  excuses.  None  to  make  for 
her?  Well,  all  I  can  say  is  you  ought  to  have.  There. 
There.  The  usual  wishes." 

Sometimes  the  attack  came  first. 

"Your  sons  are  poachers  and  thieves,  Enoch  Jones. 
They're  a  disgrace  to  the  parish.  I  hear  fine  accounts  of 
them.  It's  not  their  fault,  I'm  told,  that  they're  not 
spending  Christmas  in  prison  this  year.  It's  a  pity  they're 
not,  if  what  I  hear's  true,  and  then  people's  pheasants 
might  hope  to  spend  theirs  in  Christian  safety.  Mind  this, 
though.  I  '11  show  them  no  mercy  if  my  keepers  catch  them. 
You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  you  wicked  old  man. 
What  happened  to  Eli,  eh,  in  the  Scriptures?  He  fell  off 
a  post,  did  n't  he,  to  punish  him  for  his  sons'  evil 
courses,  and  so  will  you  if  you  don't  check  yours  on 
theirs.  You  may  well  look  down.  How 's  your  little  grand- 
daughter?" 

"She  don't  seem  to  get  up  her  strength." 

"Send  up  to  the  hall  for  some  soup.  Perhaps  she  could 
eat  a  little  jelly.  I'll  speak  about  it.  Here's  a  parcel  of 
groceries  for  you.  I  should  wish  you  a  happy  Christmas 


CHRISTOPHER  113 

with  more  certainty  of  your  getting  it  if  you'd  brought  up 
your  sons  better.  Good  day,  Enoch  Jones." 

"Good  day,  'm,  and  thank  you  gratefully,  and  a  Merry 
Christmas  and  many  of  'em." 

"Merry  Christmas,  indeed,"  snorted  Christopher's 
grandmother  to  his  mother.  "Merry  —  with  Stephen  in 
some  gutter!  I  suppose  I  ought  to  fall  off  a  post  myself. 
It's  lucky  I'm  not  given  to  sitting  on  anything  so  risky." 

So  they  proceeded.  It  was,  "Where's  the  list,  my  dear? 
Have  you  marked  those  off?  That's  right.  Good-for- 
nothings,  all  of  them.  Who's  next  then?"  The  oddest  old 
woman!  But  when  amongst  the  gifts  for  an  old  Irish 
widow,  one  Biddy  McFlood,  without  any  belongings,  a 
twist  of  tobacco  was  seen  to  have  found  its  thoughtful 
place,  —  although  it  was  shot  at  her  with  a  Faugh !  and 
For  shame  to  you !  —  Christopher's  mother  wondered  how 
she  could  ever  have  stood  in  awe  of  her  mother-in-law. 

Christopher  meanwhile,  who  had  stayed  at  home  to 
help  to  decorate  the  house  for  the  morrow,  was  pricking 
his  fingers  with  holly  leaves,  hammering  his  thumbs,  and 
generally  enjoying  himself.  A  spirit  of  festivity  was  over 
even  the  austere  hall.  It  was  there  that,  with  the  aid  of  Al- 
bert, the  other  wooden-faced  footman,  Robson,  the  butler, 
hung  the  branch  of  mistletoe  which  caused  such  a  flutter 
amongst  those  of  the  women  servants  who  were  helping. 
The  elderly  head-housemaid,  who  had  so  many  front  teeth 
when  she  smiled  that  Christopher  wondered  how  her  lips 
managed  to  cover  them  when  she  did  n't,  said  —  in  answer 
to  nothing,  as  far  as  Christopher  knew  —  that  James  or 
Albert  had  Better  let  Her  see  them  Try,  that  was  all!  Ol- 
lenshaw,  making  a  garland  of  evergreens  with  Trimmer, 
said,  "Ah,  in  the  old  days  when  we  used  to  have  annual 
servants'  balls  here,  that  was  the  time.  Some  use  in  mistle- 
toe then.  Some  meaning,  as  you  might  say." 

It  was  all  very  respectful  and  discreet.  An  apologetic 
glance  was  thrown  at  Christopher  if  any  one  laughed  at  all 


ii4  CHRISTOPHER 

loudly,  but  he  was  not  excluded  from  the  festal  jesting, 
and  took  his  own  part  in  it. 

"Trimmer  's  young  man  is  at  Boulogne,"  he  said. 

"Now,  Master  Christopher!" 

"He  is.   He's  a  piano-tu — " 

Trimmer's  laughing  hand  covered  his  mouth. 

There  was  a  friendly  scuffle.  But  the  thing  seemed  to 
give  general  pleasure.  It  was  interpreted  in  some  way  as 
proving  Master  Christopher  a  son  of  the  house  —  proud 
(Heaven  knew  how!),  but  able  and  ready  to  descend  from 
his  natural  pedestal.  He  reminded  Ollenshaw  of  his  father, 
of  course,  but  of  his  grandfather,  too,  and  of  his  great- 
uncles. 

"I  hardly  realised,  'm,"  Trimmer  said  afterwards  to  her 
mistress.  "I  did  n't  indeed." 

"Realised  what?" 

"What  they  think  it,  to  be  one  —  a  Herrick,  I  mean." 

"He's  an  Oxeter,  too." 

"I  don't  forget  that.  But  in  this  house,  'm  —  the  im- 
portance !  Of  course  I  always  knew  —  his  father's  son  and 
being  posthumious,  as  I  said  at  the  time,  I  remember. 
But  this  brings  it  'ome."  Trimmer  lowered  her  voice 
again.  "He  's  winning  golden  opinions,  'm.  Ollenshaw  tells 
me  his  grandmamma's  taken  to  him  most  extraordinary. 
She  hears,  'm,  having  her  ear,  as  it  were.  Indeed,  in  the 
housekeeper's  room  he's  as  good  as  looked  upon  as  the — " 

But  that,  Christopher's  mother  would  not  hear.  She 
felt  it  her  duty  to  speak  rather  sharply.  That  was  not  to 
be  said.  Not  to  be  thought  even.  The  case  was  nothing  of 
the  sort.  If  such  an  idea  were  put  into  the  boy's  head  — 

"No,  'm,  of  course  not.  Who  would  dream?" 

Trimmer  was  not  a  bit  abashed. 

"Don't  let  me  hear  anything  more  of  this,  or  I  shall  be 
very  angry." 

The  decorations  betokened  no  special  festivities.  Her- 
rickswood  was  always  decorated  at  Christmas.  Festoons 


CHRISTOPHER  115 

of  evergreens  decked  the  sombre  hall  every  year,  hanging 
from  point  to  point  on  the  walls.  Bunches  of  holly  were 
tucked  behind  the  frames  of  the  pictures,  crowning  them 
or  balancing  themselves  on  each  side  of  them.  Mrs.  Her- 
rick  might  be  glad  enough  to  see  these  things  cleared  away 
when  they  had  served  their  purpose,  but  she  would  as  soon 
have  thought  of  not  having  them  as  of  absenting  herself 
without  adequate  reason  from  church,  on  the  twenty-fifth 
of  December.  Customs  were  habits  in  those  days. 

The  work  went  on  apace.  There  was  a  rustling  and  a 
crackling  of  leaves.  The  big  garland,  on  which  the  maids 
had  been  employed  in  their  spare  time  for  the  last  few 
days,  was  in  its  place  between  the  two  pilasters;  and  the 
smaller  ones  were  growing  apace  under  Ollenshaw's  and 
Trimmer's  deft  fingers.  Christopher  alternately  helped 
and  hindered.  He  had  made  friends  with  wooden  Albert 
now,  and  discovered  that  he  was  not  wooden.  Albert  had 
many  accomplishments  which  you  would  not  have  dreamt 
of  attributing  to  him  if  you  had  only  seen  him  waiting. 
He  could  move  his  ears  and  his  scalp.  Very  accomplished, 
this!  He  could  wink,  and  taught  Christopher  —  with, 
however,  a  caution.  But  above  all,  he  was  a  ventrilo- 
quist. 

He  called,  "Are  you  there?"  into  an  empty  cupboard 
under  the  great  stone  stairs,  and  a  voice  came  out  of  it, 
saying,  "Of  course  I  am,  and  who's  that  young  gentleman 
'olding  the  'oily?" 

"What  young  gentleman?" 

"Why,  standing  beside  you,  stupid!" 

"He  means  you,  Master  Christopher." 

After  that  the  voice  of  the  man  in  the  empty  cupboard, 
who  dropped  his  H's  so  thoroughly,  had  to  be  evoked  for 
Christopher  from  everywhere  else  that  Christopher  could 
think  of:  from  the  gallery  overhead;  from  the  dining-room 
and  the  library,  and  the  great  cold  drawing-room  which 
nobody  sat  in. 

"Can  you,  Robson?" 


n6  CHRISTOPHER 

Robson,  smiling  indulgently,  had  other  things  to  do, 
than  waste  his  time. 

"Can  James?" 

No,  James  could  n't  either;  but  it  appeared  that  James 
was  "proficient"  upon  the  melodeon,  a  sort  of  concertina. 
Christopher  thought  the  baize  door  shut  off  many  delights. 

The  sound  of  the  returning  carriage  put  a  stop  to  the 
entertainment.  The  servants,  who  had  gathered  round  to 
listen,  went  back  to  their  several  employments;  Trimmer 
and  Ollenshaw  to  their  garlands,  the  maids  to  their  snip- 
pings  and  prunings ;  while  Robson,  whipping  in  Albert  with 
a  look,  nipped  down  the  ladder  upon  which  he  had  been 
standing,  and  hastened  to  the  door. 

Mrs.  Herrick,  pausing  on  her  stick  to  look  round,  said, 
"A  nice  mess,  I  must  say.  Have  you  helped,  Christopher? 
Has  he,  Ollenshaw?" 

"Of  the  greatest  assistance,  'm. 

His  grandmother  smiled  at  him. 

"Enjoyed  yourself?" 

Christopher  had  done  that,  too. 

He  followed  his  mother  upstairs  to  tell  her  about  Albert. 

But  his  mother  could  hardly  listen  to  him;  for  odder 
even  than  the  odd  reiteration  of  disturbing  words,  stranger 
than  the  realisation  of  youth  which  had  lately  been  forced 
upon  her,  was  the  news  which  she  had  just  heard  in  the 
carriage. 

John  Hemming,  it  seemed,  was  in  England,  —  nothing 
surprising  in  that;  was  in  the  neighbourhood,  —  not 
wholly  surprising,  this,  either,  for  it  was  in  that  part  of 
the  world,  though  at  the  other  side  of  the  county,  that  she 
had  first  met  him ;  was  coming  to  dinner  next  day. 

And  that,  to  Anne  Herrick,  was  rather  more  than  sur- 
prising. 


CHAPTER  XV 

IT  was  representative  of  the  difference  at  that  time  in  the 
attitude  of  society  towards  the  male  and  the  female  trans- 
gressor, that,  while  the  tip  of  Mrs.  St.  Jemison's  nose 
would  not  have  been  allowed  to  show  itself  over  the  thresh- 
old of  Herrickswood,  John  Hemming  could  be  asked  to 
dinner  without  any  ado  soever.  It  would  not,  indeed,  have 
occurred  to  Mrs.  Herrick  the  elder  that  upon  a  point  so 
well  established  any  tentative  sounding  of  the  guest 
already  installed,  as  to  whether  she  had  any  objection  to 
meeting  him,  could  be  deemed  necessary. 

Anne,  conscious  of  being  taken  aback,  was  conscious  also 
that  this  very  difference  of  outlook  marked  the  relative 
worldly  positions  of  her  mother-in-law  and  herself.  It  was 
a  question  of  upbringing.  She  herself  would  have  felt 
bound  to  "ask"  before  asking.  Town  and  country  mouse, 
she  felt,  were  adumbrated :  here  you  saw  the  Mrs.  Herrick 
who  lived  in  the  world,  and  the  Mrs.  Herrick  who,  in  so 
far  as  she  did  not  see  eye  to  eye  with  her  in  this  matter, 
plainly  lived  out  of  it. 

But  in  truth  it  was  not  upon  such  points  of  observance 
that  she  was  troubled.  There  was  more  than  this  to  dis- 
turb her.  She  heard  thus  hardly  more  than  a  word  or  two 
of  what  Christopher  had  followed  her  upstairs  to  tell.  She 
said,  "Did  you,  darling?"  and  "Really!"  and  "You  don't 
mean  it!"  relevantly  enough.  But  whether  Albert  was  a 
ventriloquist,  a  contortionist,  or  a  Primitive  Methodist 
she  could  not  have  told  afterwards  —  or,  indeed,  whether 
it  was  Albert  at  all  that  she  had  been  hearing  about,  and 
not  Robson  or  the  elderly  housemaid  or  Ollenshaw.  Some- 
body had  done  something,  she  knew,  and  she  must  see  or 
must  hear  him  —  or  her.  Christopher,  however,  did  not 
realise  her  inattention,  and  presently  left  her. 


ii8  CHRISTOPHER 

She  stood  by  her  dressing-table  in  her  hat  and  coat 
and  looked  at,  without  seeing,  herself  in  the  glass.  The  fire 
crackled  and  spluttered  and  blew  out  puffing  jets  of  flame 
and  boiling  "tar"  in  the  grate  behind  her.  The  sound  of  it 
was  the  only  sound  in  the  room.  It  marked  the  passing 
moments  with  little  flares  of  ardent  gas.  Anne  heard  them 
and  thought  the  noise  was  like  the  running  sound  of  the 
knife-grinder's  wheel  when  he  holds  the  blade  to  it  at 
intervals  in  its  revolutions.  Automatically  she  had  lighted 
the  candles  on  each  side  of  the  looking-glass,  and  now,  as 
automatically,  she  put  them  out,  and  drawing  back  a  cur- 
tain looked  out  over  the  park. 

The  frozen  ground  looked  white,  almost  as  if  the  snow, 
for  which  Christopher  had  been  wishing,  had  come  indeed. 
The  sky  was  very  clear  and,  in  the  early  winter  evening, 
full  of  stars.  The  trees  were  very  dark  in  the  pale  light, 
and  against  the  sky  the  branches  of  a  cedar  near  the  house 
looked  as  if  they  were  cut  out  of  black  paper.  That  gleam 
to  the  left  ringed  by  darkness  must  be  the  lake.  The  even- 
ing was  very  still.  Bells  suddenly  rang  out  faintly  upon 
the  stillness,  or  it  may  be  that  suddenly  she  became  aware 
of  their  distant  ringing.  They  reminded  her  of  other 
Christmas  Eves. 

She  opened  her  window  to  listen,  and  as  she  did  so  an- 
other sound  smote  crisply  upon  her  ear  —  the  sound  of 
hoofs.  Presently  she  made  out  the  shape  of  a  horse  and  a 
rider  upon  the  road  below.  She  watched  its  progress  across 
the  park  to  where  it  disappeared  from  her  sight  at  the  cor- 
ner of  the  house. 

It  was  about  five  minutes  later  that  a  note  was  brought 
to  her  by  Trimmer. 

"For  me?"  she  said.  "It  is  n't  a  telegram?"  She  had  a 
momentary  fear  that  something  must  have  happened.  Her 
mother  was  ill,  or  one  of  her  sisters. 

"No,  'm.   It's  a  note  by  messenger." 

Trimmer  looked  for  the  matches,  found  them,  and  lighted 
the  candles. 


CHRISTOPHER  119 

"It  must  be  for  Mrs.  Herrick,"  said  her  mistress.  She 
had  taken  the  note  and  was  waiting  for  the  light  to  burn  up. 

"No,  'm.  Robson  said  it  was  for  you." 

The  flames  of  the  candles  settled  to  steady  burning  and 
showed  the  name  on  the  envelope  to  be  Mrs.  Christopher 
Herrick. 

Still  Anne  hesitated,  persuaded  that  there  must  be  some 
mistake.  She  knew  no  one  about  there  likely  to  write  to 
her.  There  were,  of  course,  people  whom  she  had  met  or 
who  had  called  upon  her  years  ago.  It  was  possible  that 
one  of  these  might  have  written,  but  it  was  improbable. 
She  was  sure  the  note,  whatever  its  direction,  must  be  for 
her  mother-in-law. 

Trimmer  waited. 

"Robson  did  n't  say  where  it  was  from?" 

"No,  'm.  He  only  said  it  was  for  you.  I  gathered  some- 
how, though  he  did  n't  say  so,  that  the  messenger  had  been 
given  particular  instructions." 

It  was  a  good  many  years  since  Anne  Herrick  had  seen 
the  handwriting  on  the  envelope  or  she  would  have  recog- 
nised it,  perhaps,  but  even  as  she  broke  the  seal  she  did  so, 
and  knew  in  the  same  moment  what  she  should  find  within. 
She  held  the  sheet  to  the  light,  and,  steadying  her  eyes 
with  an  effort,  read  the  few  lines  it  contained. 

"I  have  just  heard  you  are  at  Herri ckswood.  You  will 
believe  that  I  did  not  know  you  were  to  be  there  when, 
with  my  father,  I  accepted  Mrs.  Herrick's  invitation  to 
dine  with  her  on  Christmas  Day.  I  place  myself  in  your 
hands.  I  will  go  to-morrow  evening,  or  send  excuse,  accord- 
ing as  you  bid  me." 

There  was  no  beginning  and  no  end. 

"Is  the  messenger  waiting?" 

"Yes,  'm." 

Anne  Herrick  went  over  to  a  writing-table,  without  an 
idea  of  what  she  was  going  to  write.  Her  first  impulse  was 
to  say,  Do  not  come.  Yet  to  what  good  ?  She  was,  moreover, 
still  so  far  in  awe  of  her  mother-in-law  as  to  shrink  from 


120  CHRISTOPHER 

interfering  in  any  of  her  arrangements.  What  more  likely 
than  that  the  coming  of  this  messenger  would  reach  her 
ears?  In  such  a  case,  as  things  stood,  easy  enough,  in  view 
of  what  had  scandalised  Boulogne  so  recently,  to  explain. 
But  if  the  "excuse"  came  first,  and  the  hearing  of  the 
note  afterwards,  a  connection  between  the  two  would  be 
obvious,  an  explanation  unavoidable,  and  Christopher's 
grandmother  would,  she  thought,  be  a  difficult  person  to 
whom  to  make  admissions.  She  must  either  consult  her  host- 
ess or  let  her  hostess's  guest  come.  She  made  her  decision. 

"I  understand, "she  wrote,  "and  am  grateful.  But  please 
come  as  you  intended." 

She  let  this  stand,  folded  the  sheet,  enclosed  it  in  an 
envelope  which  she  addressed,  and  gave  it  to  Trimmer. 

"The  note  was  for  me,"  she  said. 

Christopher  was  not  sitting  up  for  dinner  that  night. 
It  had  been  arranged  in  the  interests  of  his  bedtime  that 
he  should  have  tea  with  Trimmer  in  the  housekeeper's 
room,  and  so  retire  at  his  usual  hour.  He  came  in  to  des- 
sert for  a  few  minutes  and  was  given  a  fig  and  a  tangerine 
orange  to  eat  there  and  then,  and  some  chocolates  to  take 
up  with  him,  so  he  went  to  bed  a  full  and  happy  boy.  His 
mother  and  his  grandmother  sat  on  for  a  little  while  after 
he  had  left  them,  and  then  went  as  before  to  Mrs.  Herrick's 
sitting-room.  Anne,  who  had  been  waiting  all  through 
dinner  for  the  mention  of  John  Hemming's  name,  was 
the  first  to  speak  it.  She  had  decided  that  she  must  tell 
Mrs.  Herrick  of  her  recent  meeting  with  him  at  Boulogne. 
As  Christopher  would  see  him  at  dinner  the  next  day, 
she  had,  indeed,  no  alternative.  As  well,  then,  speak  of  the 
note  and  make  no  mysteries. 

"At  Boulogne,  were  they?"  said  Mrs.  Herrick.  "Well, 
just  the  sort  of  place  where  one  would  expect  to  find  them, 
poor  things.  There's  the  wide  world  to  choose  from,  and 
they  go  to  Boulogne!  There's  a  fate  in  it.  If  it  had  n't 
been  Boulogne,  it  would  have  been  Brussels  or  Bruges." 


CHRISTOPHER  121 

"We  thought  of  Brussels  or  Bruges  ourselves,"  said 
Anne  Herrick  smiling,  "when  mamma  gave  up  Chelten- 
ham." 

Mrs.  Herrick  made  no  comment  on  this,  but  looked 
amused. 

"So  they  fixed  on  Boulogne,  did  they,  and  fluttered 
your  dovecots?" 

"Well,  every  one  knew.  That  was  why  one  could  n't 
do  anything  —  even  after  his  kindness  about  Christopher. 
He  came  at  once  to  see  him  when  I  wrote,  and  I  have  to 
thank  him,  in  a  way,  for  Christopher's  recovery." 

"You'll  be  able  to  do  that  to-morrow." 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  have  the  opportunity.  He  kept  out 
of  our  way  after  his  visit,  and  soon  afterwards  they  went 
away." 

"Have  you  heard  anything  of  him  since?" 

"Not  till  to-day  —  not  till  you  spoke  of  him  this  after- 
noon and  I  got  his  note  this  evening." 

"Do  you  know  that  they've  separated?" 

Anne  Herrick  put  down  the  magazine  the  pages  of  which 
she  had  been  cutting. 

"Separated!"  she  said. 

"Well  — she,"  said  Mrs.  Herrick. 

Anne  looked  her  amazement. 

"But  aren't  they  going  to  be  married?"  she  asked  at 
last. 

The  words  as  she  spoke  them  showed  her  how  completely 
impersonal  had  her  thoughts  been.  John  Hemming,  as 
John  Hemming,  had  not  entered  into  them.  In  so  far  as  she 
had  thought  of  him,  though  the  sight  of  him  had  so  greatly 
disturbed  her,  she  had  thought  of  him  as  another  woman's 
husband  —  removed,  apportioned,  out  of  any  reckoning. 
It  was  not  of  him,  then,  that  she  had  been  afraid,  but  of  all 
men  by  reason  of  him ;  since  it  was  the  sight  of  him  which 
had  revealed  to  her  that  she  was  young  still,  and  a  woman. 

"The  whole  thing  is  extraordinary,"  Mrs.  Herrick  said. 
"First,  St.  Jemison,  who  is  a  beast,  —  though  that's  by 


122  CHRISTOPHER 

the  way  and  justifies  nothing,  —  won't  divorce  her.  Vin- 
dictiveness,  nothing  else,  for  he  had  no  thought  of  taking 
her  back,  —  and  they  are  kept  dangling  by  his  perversity 
for  goodness  knows  how  long.  And  then,  when  at  length 
he  does,  and  the  time  is  approaching  for  the  decree  to  be 
made  absolute,  off  goes  the  lady  with  somebody  else." 

Anne  could  hardly  take  this  in.  She  began  two  or  three 
sentences,  all  beginning  with  But. 

"My  dear,  it's  because  you  can't  put  yourself  in  her 
position.  You've  been  feeling,  just  because  you  could  n't 
call  upon  her,  and  because  she  showed  something  more 
perhaps  than  just  common  humanity  when  Christopher 
met  with  his  accident,  —  knelt  in  the  dust  and  did  n't 
consider  her  pretty  clothes  and  all  that,  —  that  she  was 
a  deeply  suffering  woman.  You  yourself  in  her  position 

—  if  you  ever  could  be  in  her  position,  which  you  could  n't! 

—  would  be  miserable.  Therefore  she  was.  Not  a  bit  of  it. 
Oh,  I  daresay  she  has  suffered.  She  can't  have  liked  drop- 
ping out,  sidelong  looks  —  any  of  the  penalties.    I  dare- 
say she  is  n't  at  all  a  bad  woman  in  her  way.    But  she's 
light.    Women  who  are  really  capable  of  suffering  don't 
leave  their  children.    I  have  n't  any  doubt  that  she  imag- 
ines her  little  girl's  name  is  written  on  her  heart.   It  is  n't. 
I  won't  say  there  is  n't  a  heart  to  write  on,  for  I  quite  think 
there  is,  but  there  is  n't  room  on  that  sort  of  heart  for  the 
names  of  children." 

"She's  so  pretty." 

"So,  I've  no  doubt,  was  Mrs.  Potiphar." 

"You  could  see  people  talking  about  her,  turning  their 

backs—" 

"Just  so.  The  penalties  I  spoke  of." 

"She  looked  so  lonely  when  he  was  n't  there." 

"I  can  imagine  Boulogne  —  or  Brussels  or  Bruges  — 

very  boring." 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  few  moments. 

"My  dear,  your  pity  is  wasted  upon  her.    Trimmer's 

was  n't  the  wrong  attitude,  even  if,  as  I  can  quite  believe, 


CHRISTOPHER  123 

the  good  woman's  heart  did  smite  her.  Young  Hemming  is 
well  rid  of  her  —  your  St.  Jemison.  He  may  thank  the 
husband  for  his  venom." 

"It's  all  dreadful,"  said  Anne. 

"  Not  nearly  as  dreadful  (the  Lord  forgive  me  —  and 
her!),  not  nearly  as  dreadful  as  it  might  have  been.  It 
was  n't  only  their  heels  they  were  cooling  while  her  hus- 
band kept  them  waiting,  and  luckily  (the  Lord  forgive  me 
again!)  she  found  this  out  before  it  was  too  late." 

"  He  meant  to  marry  her  — " 

"That's  why  I  say  luckily  (for  which  the  Lord  .  .  .!) 
He  would  have  gone  through  with  it  cheerfully,  whatever 
the  state  of  his  feelings.  He 's  not  the  sort  of  man  to  back 
out  of  what  the  situation  demanded.  She  was  a  fool  not 
to  recognise  —  well,  she's  found  her  vocation.  I  daresay 
I  'm  shocking  you,  but  she  is  light,  light,  light.  You  don't 
know  her  as  I  do." 

Anne  shook  her  head. 

"  I  don't  know  her  at  all." 

"Well,  I  do  —  or  did,  and  I  even  rather  liked  .  .  .  rather 
like  her.  She  has  her  points:  kindnesses,  generosities,  ex- 
cellent manners.  She  takes  the  trouble  to  make  herself 
agreeable  even  to  old  women,  and  not  any  the  less  if  their 
sons  should  happen  to  be  her  lovers.  Oh,  yes,  Stephen 
in  his  day.  She  knew  I  knew.  Bless  you,  did  n't  trouble  her 
pretty  head,  and  always  was  charming  to  me.  That  was 
Cora  St.  Jemison.  Like  her?  One  could  n't  help  liking  her. 
But  keep  your  pity,  Anne.  Spare  yourself  the  pain  of 
being  too  sorry  for  her." 

There  was  a  long  pause  after  this.  Mrs.  Herrick  put  on 
her  velvet  glove  and  mended  the  fire. 

"And  Mr.  Hemming?"  said  Anne  then.  "Is  one  to  be 
sorry  for  him?" 

"I  think  one  is  to  take  him  as  he  is.  I  have  my  own 
opinion  as  to  how  he  came  to  be  in  that  galley  at  all. 
Somebody  had  to  be  scapegoat.  Somebody  always  has. 
He 's  not  a  saint,  I  'm  not  claiming  that  fo;:  him,  or  indeed 


124  CHRISTOPHER 

claiming  anything  except  that,  somehow,  in  spite  of  ap- 
pearances, and  a  good  deal  more  than  appearances,  too, 
he's  to  be  trusted." 

"  I  always  liked  him,"  said  Anne,  and  remembered  that 
she  had  said  the  same  thing  of  good-for-nothing  Stephen. 
She  blushed  a  very  rosy  red  and  was  glad  there  was  a  fire, 
and  very  glad  that  the  old  lady,  who  knew  most  things, 
at  least  did  not  know  that  time  was  when  John  Hemming 
had  wanted  to  marry  her.  She  stooped  for  her  paper- 
knife,  which  had  fallen,  and  went  on  cutting  the  pages  of 
"All  the  Year  Round."  The  sound  of  the  cutting — cut, 
cut,  cut;  cut,  cut,  cut  —  established  itself.  The  rhythmical 
sound  helped  the  moment.  When  she  looked  up  her  colour 
was  normal. 

They  talked  no  more  that  night  of  John  Hemming  or 
Mrs.  St.  Jemison.  Anne  read  her  magazine  —  or  rather, 
did  not  read  it,  but  sat  with  it  in  her  lap,  forgetting  to  turn 
over  the  pages  she  had  cut  so  assiduously.  At  half-past 
ten,  Robson  and  the  ventriloquist  appeared  with  their 
candles. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ANNE  HERRICK,  wide  awake  in  the  great  four-post  bed 
in  her  room,  was  grateful  to  the  Waits  who  sang  under  the 
windows  of  Herrickswood  so  late  that  night.  Out  of  the 
silence  suddenly  came  the  singing.  She  raised  her  head 
to  listen,  at  a  loss  for  a  moment  to  account  for  what  she 
heard.  Despite  the  decorated  hall  through  which  she  had 
passed  on  her  way  to  bed,  she  had  forgotten  the  season, 
and  old  customs  connected  with  it,  and  she  had  to  collect 
her  thoughts  before  she  could  be  sure  that,  wide  awake 
as  she  knew  herself  to  be,  she  was  not  dreaming.  Like  the 
strains  of  an  organ  in  some  big  and  empty  church,  the 
voices  of  men  and  boys  swelled  out  in  the  stillness,  and 
from  that  stillness  and  the  hour  borrowed,  it  may  be,  a 
glamour  which  under  any  other  conditions  they  might 
have  lacked.  There  must  have  been  some  twelve  voices, 
—  the  pick,  Anne  heard  afterwards,  of  a  neighbouring 
choir,  —  and  amongst  them  three  or  four  of  rather  more 
than  ordinary  quality.  She  lay  still,  listening,  wishing  that 
Christopher  too  might  hear,  but  loath  to  wake  him. 

"Ay,  and  therefore  be  merry, 
Set  sorrow  aside; 
Christ  Jesus  the  Saviour 
Was  born  at  this  tide." 

Glees,  ballads,  madrigals  alternated  with  hymns.  "God 
rest  you  merry,  gentlemen,"  was  flanked  upon  the  one 
side  by  "When  I  view  the  Mother  holding,"  and  upon  the 
other  by  "Adeste  Fideles."  The  "Mistletoe  Bough"  had 
its  place  in  their  repertory. 

Nothing  else  could  have  calmed  Christopher's  disturbed 
mother  as  did  this  odd,  unlooked-for  concert  in  the  night. 
She  grudged  the  passing  of  each  simple  melody  as  it  neared 


126  CHRISTOPHER 

an  end,  and  feared  that  every  one  might  be  the  last.  Listen- 
ing intently  she  could  hear  a  subdued  murmur  of  voices 
at  the  conclusion  of  each,  and  could  imagine  the  collecting 
of  the  sheets  of  music,  and  the  discussion  which  then  took 
place  before  those  of  the  next  were  given  out.  There  was 
the  sound  of  feet;  of  an  occasional  laugh  under  the  breath, 
or  perhaps  a  cough.  She  heard  the  quiet  opening  of  a  win- 
dow; little  movements  in  the  house  itself.  Others  besides 
her  were  listening. 

She  was  not  surprised  when  a  gentle  knock  at  the  door 
heralded  Trimmer  in  a  flannel  dressing-gown. 

"Oh,  you're  not  asleep,  'm.  I  could  n't  help  coming  to 
see.  Is  n't  it  beautiful?  Is  Master  Christopher?" 

"  I  did  n't  like  to  wake  him." 

"May  I  see?" 

"If  you  like." 

"  He  'd  never  forgive  us  if  we  did  n't.  We're  all  listening 
upstairs.  They  don't  always  come,  —  these,  —  only  some- 
times. They  're  special,  Ollenshaw  says.  It 's  an  experience. 
It  would  be  a  pity  if  he  missed  it.  Nothing  like  this,  'm, 
at  B'long,  is  there?" 

"Well,  tell  him  he's  not  to  get  out  of  bed.  And  never 
mind  if  you  don't  quite  wake  him.  Indeed,  if  you  just 
half-wake  him  he'll  hear  through  his  sleep  —  perhaps 
the  most  wonderful  way  of  all." 

So  Christopher  heard  the  Waits  with  the  rest,  but,  being 
only  half-awakened  at  Trimmer's  discretion,  heard  them 
as  his  mother  had  predicted,  in  the  most  wonderful  way  of 
all.  The  voices  of  celestial  choirs  mingled  with  his  dreams. 
Harps,  sackbuts,  psalteries,  dulcimers,  and  all  kinds  of 
music  were  present  ever  after  in  his  conception  of  what 
Waits  were  —  of  what  the  magic  word  should  and  could 
imply. 

"Ay,  and  therefore  be  merry, 
Set  sorrow  aside  .  .  ." 

So  to  music  passed  the  night  for  sleeping  Christopher,  and  so 
for  his  mother,  who  had  not  thought  to  sleep,  but  slept. 


CHRISTOPHER  127 

Greetings,  presents,  church,  the  post-bag  —  all  the  usual 
eager  Christmas  businesses  —  filled  the  morning,  but  even 
then,  and  all  through  the  afternoon,  the  day  seemed  to  be 
hurrying  towards  evening.  Anne  saw  the  hours  flit  by 
with  mixed  feelings.  She  still  felt  bewildered  by  the  whole- 
sale readjusting  of  ideas  which  the  talk  of  the  day  before 
with  Mrs.  Herrick  had  entailed  upon  her.  Nothing  was 
quite  as  she  had  supposed  it.  She  knew  not  whether  to  be 
glad  or  sorry  that  circumstances  should  have  made  it  pos- 
sible for  her  to  meet  her  friend  of  other  days  once  more 
on  open  ground.  She  was  of  course  to  have  met  him  any- 
way, but  not  as  she  was  now  to  meet  him.  How  was 
he  different,  indeed?  He  was  not  different.  That  could 
not  help  still  being  true.  Yet  somehow  everything  was 
changed. 

She  went  through  the  day  curiously ;  was  out  as  much  as 
possible,  feeling  a  strange  need  of  air  and  space.  It  was 
happily  a  day  for  walking,  and  she  and  Christopher  did 
their  five  or  six  miles  after  lunch.  They  visited  the  ice  in 
the  course  of  their  walk,  and  found  it  in  excellent  condition 
and  considerably  thicker  than  the  day  before.  If  the  frost 
lasted  she  must  see  about  getting  skates  in  the  neighbour- 
ing town  the  next  day,  to  be  ready  for  the  day  after,  when 
all  being  well,  the  ice  should  bear.  She  talked  of  this  for  a 
little,  wondering  all  the  time  how  best  to  tell  Christopher 
what  he  did  not  know  yet.  She  had  thought  that  he  would 
probably  have  heard  who  it  was  who  was  coming  to  dinner, 
but  it  was  evident  that  he  had  not.  Trimmer,  of  course, 
must  have  heard.  She  must  have  seen  the  direction,  too, 
on  the  note  which  her  mistress  had  given  to  her,  but  however 
much  Trimmer  might  wonder,  she  was  too  well-bred  a  ser- 
vant to  make  any  comment  upon  what  did  not  concern  her. 
It  would  not  have  been  from  her  that  Christopher  would 
have  heard. 

"Who  do  you  think  is  coming  to  dinner?" 

"Who?" 

She  told  him. 


128  CHRISTOPHER 

Mr.  Hemming?  John  Hemming?  His  John  Hemming? 
Christopher's  John  Hemming! 

Was  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  coming  too? 

But  here,  from  Christopher's  point  of  view,  was  the  diffi- 
cult thing  to  understand,  for  he  was  not  to  speak  of  Mrs. 
St.  Jemison.  John  Hemming  was  coming,  but  Mrs.  St. 
Jemison  was  still  the  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  who  could  n't  be 
called  upon  or  asked  anywhere.  More  than  ever  now,  it 
seemed,  was  she  outside  the  pale  that  Trimmer  had  spoken 
about  at  Boulogne.  So  much  so,  that,  whatever  he  did,  the 
one  thing  he  must  remember  at  dinner,  and  afterwards, 
and  always,  was  that  she  must  not  be  mentioned.  Difficult, 
as  you  will  perceive,  to  understand. 

John  Hemming,  however,  was  coming.  That  was  the 
great  thing.  It  blotted  out  all  else.  Christopher  would 
see  him  again,  and  John  Hemming,  released,  he  gathered, 
in  some  way  from  something,  would  not  look  aside  any 
more  when  they  met,  or  look  past  him,  or  over  him,  or  other- 
wise show  any  disposition  to  avoid  him.  Things  were  dif- 
ferent —  would  be  found  to  be  different.  It  was  Chris- 
topher then  who,  like  the  day  itself,  strained  towards  the 
evening. 

Anne  Herrick,  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  her  dress- 
ing, heard  the  wheels  of  General  Hemming's  carriage  on  the 
gravel.  She  had  relieved  her  mind  by  speaking  of  these 
expected  guests  to  Trimmer,  and  had  found,  as  she  ex- 
pected, that  Trimmer  knew  who  was  coming.  Trimmer 
knew,  too,  that  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  had  taken  a  further  step 
in  her  career.  Ollenshaw  was  a  mine  of  information  upon 
the  doings  of  what  she  called  the  best  people,  and  had  more 
to  tell  of  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  than  Trimmer  had  to  tell  her. 
She  had  known  some  nice  ones  in  her  time.  It  was  Ollen- 
shaw's  sex,  Ollenshaw  thought,  which  was  most  in  gener- 
ally to  blame,  and  Mr.  Hemming  (who  was  very  good- 
looking)  was  probably  less  culpable  than  you  might  think 
for.  Trimmer,  reflecting  something  of  all  this,  and  despite 


CHRISTOPHER  129 

her  recent  attitude  towards  the  pair  at  Boulogne,  did  not 
seem  surprised  that  Mr.  Hemming  should  be  expected. 
Mrs.  St.  Jemison,  it  was  evident,  stood  to  her  for  the  ban; 
the  ban  removed,  there  remained  Mr.  Hemming,  with  no 
visible  black  mark  against  him.  Strange!  Yet  not  very 
different  in  essence  her  own  argument,  Anne  thought;  and 
not  so  very  different  Mrs.  Herrick's.  It  was  agreeable, 
however,  not  to  have  to  explain. 

"Your  fan,  'm,"  said  Trimmer,  "and  your  gloves,"  and 
followed  her  to  the  door,  to  look  after  her  with  approbation 
down  the  passage.  Her  mistress  was  wearing  a  new  dress, 
and  Trimmer  thought  she  had  never  looked  prettier. 

Trimmer  was  not  the  only  one  who  admired  Anne  that 
night. 

Anne  went  of  habit  to  Mrs.  Herrick's  sitting-room,  only 
to  find  it  empty,  and  then,  guided  by  the  sound  of  voices, 
to  the  drawing-room.  Its  two  fires  were  blazing  and  its 
many  candles  gave  the  room  a  brilliance  which  became  it 
greatly.  Mrs.  Herrick  was  standing  at  the  hearth  at 
the  far  end  of  it,  talking  to  an  old  and  a  young  man.  Christ- 
opher stood  beside  her. 

"No  party,  as  I  warned  you,"  she  was  saying  as  Anne 
came  in.  "Just  family.  You  remember  my  daughter-in- 
law." 

Anne,  reaching  the  party,  shook  hands  with  General 
Hemming.  She  turned  then  to  the  other,  of  whose  exact 
aspect,  though  she  had  not  looked  at  him  till  she  stood  be- 
side him,  she  had  been  conscious  as  she  crossed  the  room. 
She  put  out  her  hand.  She  heard  herself  greet  him  with- 
out knowing  what  she  said,  and  at  the  same  moment  din- 
ner was  announced. 

"  I  ought  to  have  beaten  up  a  little  girl  for  Christopher, 
ought  n't  I?"  said  Christopher's  grandmother,  apportion- 
ing his  mother  to  John  Hemming  with  a  wave  of  her  fan ; 
"but  little  girls  are  not  easy  to  get  at  Christmas  —  nor 
any  one  else,  for  that  matter,  which  makes  me  the  more 
grateful  to  you  all  for  coming  to  eat  your  Christmas  dinner 


I3o  CHRISTOPHER 

with  a  lonely  old  woman.  Will  you  go  on,  Mr.  Hemming? 
Christopher,  don't  tread  on  my  tail,  nor  laugh  at  your 
grandmother's  back." 

Christopher,  who  had  no  thought  of  doing  either, 
laughed  happily  in  her  face.  He  was  n't  a  bit  afraid  of  her 
now. 

Anne  hoped,  prayed,  that  the  hand  on  John  Hemming's 
arm  did  not  tremble.  She  had  an  idea  that  the  arm  on 
which  it  rested  was  itself  not  quite  steady.  Would  he 
ignore  Boulogne  and  their  recent  meeting?  Should  she? 
It  was  partly  of  nervousness,  partly  to  settle  her  nerves, 
that  she  spoke  of  the  place  herself. 

She  saw  at  once  that  he  was  not  going  to  ignore  anything. 
He  accepted  their  common  knowledge  as  something  that 
had  to  be  granted.  There  was  unhappiness  behind  him, 
she  perceived,  but  perceived  also  that  he  was  not  unhappy. 
In  appearance,  as  she  saw  him  closely,  he  was  hardly 
changed  from  her  lover  of  years  ago. 

But  what  she  chiefly  noticed,  and  what  told  her  more  of 
him  than  he  or  his  looks  could  tell,  was  somehow  his 
father's  aspect  that  evening.  She  could  guess  that  their 
relations  as  father  and  son  were  of  the  sort  in  which  not 
much  would  be  said.  She  could  believe  that  possibly 
neither  remonstrance  nor  protest  had  passed  the  old  man's 
lips  during  the  time  which  was  now  over.  But  the  impres- 
sion which  she  got  now  was  of  one  from  whose  heart  there 
was  rising  a  song  of  thanksgiving  —  a  paean  of  which  the 
theme  was  "This  my  Son,"  and  the  burden,  "Which  was 
dead  and  is  alive  again." 

It  was  the  season,  perhaps,  the  carols  of  the  night,  the 
words  which  she  had  heard  with  her  outward  ears  in  church 
that  morning.  She  did  not  think  it. 

Dinner  meanwhile  was  passing  cheerfully.  The  presence 
of  Christopher  kept  the  spirit  of  the  occasion  alive  even  for 
his  elders,  who  else,  perhaps,  for  their  several  reasons,  would 
have  been  inclined  rather  to  forget  than  to  foster  it.  Under 
the  influence  of  it  Anne  felt  her  nervousness  evaporating. 


CHRISTOPHER  131 

"He  is  none  the  worse  of  his  accident?"  John  Hemming 
said. 

"No,"  she  answered.   "You  cured  him." 

His  smile  leapt  to  hers. 

"I  don't  know  how  I  did  that." 

"Nor  I,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head. 

They  spoke  under  cover  of  a  friendly  argument  upon 
some  local  question  on  which  Mrs.  Herrick  was  engaged 
with  General  Hemming. 

"He  cherishes  the  nail,"  she  added. 

How  strange  it  was,  she  was  thinking  again,  how  strange! 
This  man  might  have  been  her  husband.  Would  there  have 
been  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  then?  But  would  there  have  been 
Christopher? 

She  fell  into  silence  for  a  few  moments,  but  for  long 
enough  to  send  a  thought  on  its  familiar  way  to  India.  So 
well  did  her  thoughts  know  their  way  there;  to  a  bungalow 
which  she  had  once  called  "home";  and  a  little  graveyard 
in  the  hills! 

"Can  you  skate?"  she  heard  Christopher  saying.  "The 
ice '11  bear  to-morrow,  I  believe,  but  it'll  be  safe  the  day 
after,  and  we're  going  to.  At  least,  I'm  going  to  learn. 
Mother  can." 

Christopher's  John  Hemming  skated. 

"Come  and  skate  here,  then,"  said  Christopher's  grand- 
mother. "Not  that  any  invitation  is  necessary,  for  every 
one  knows  the  lake  is  always  open  when  there's  a  frost. 
Come  to  lunch." 

"Oh,  do,"  cried  Christopher,  excited  in  a  moment, — 
"do.  Make  him  come,  mother." 

Christopher,  all  unconsciously,  had  made  it  possible  for 
him  to  look  at  Christopher's  mother  before  he  answered. 
It  was  the  note  of  the  night  before  again.  She  could  not  but 
be  pleased. 

She  met  his  look,  but  did  not  speak,  and  he  accepted  the 
invitation. 

"I'm  on  your  side  now  about  the  frost,"  he  said  to 


I32  CHRISTOPHER 

Christopher.   "We  must  make  it  last  somehow,  mustn't 
we?" 

"It's  going  to,"  said  Christopher.  "Robson  says  so. 
He  knows  by  his  bones." 

"Sing  to  us,  Anne,"  Mrs.  Herrick  said  later. 

Christopher  had  gone  to  bed,  by  then,  but  he  was  too 
excited  to  be  asleep,  and  from  the  distant  drawing-room 
the  music  stole  to  him  presently  as  he  lay  awake  listening. 
He  was  awake  an  hour  later  when  the  carriage  bearing  the 
departing  guests  rolled  off,  crunching  the  gravel.  He  heard 
the  trot  of  the  horses'  hoofs  halfway  across  the  park  to 
where  the  road  turned  and  a  little  hill  interposed  between 
it  and  the  house. 

"What  shall  I  sing?"  said  Anne,  and  went  over  to  the 
piano. 

John  Hemming  followed  her  to  light  the  candles,  and 
stayed  near  when  he  had  done  so.  She  played  a  few  chords 
at  random  and  drifted  on  a  train  of  thought  into  the  open- 
ing bars  of  Adolphe  Adam's  "Cantique  de  Noel,"  which 
that  night  she  knew  would  be  sung  at  the  Cathedral  at 
Boulogne.  It  was  not  wholly  its  appropriateness  to  the 
day  that  made  her  choose  it  —  not  so  much  that,  indeed, 
as  the  thought  that  Granny  Oxeter  would  perhaps  be  lis- 
tening to  it  up  in  the  old  town,  and  that  she  was  conscious 
of  a  sudden  wish  to  be  in  touch  with  one  who  understood 
so  well. 

Minuit,  Chretiens,  c'est  1'heure  solennelle 

Oti  1'homme  Dieu  descendit  jusqu'  a  nous, 

Pour  effacer  la  tache  originelle, 

Et  de  son  pere  arrlter  le  courroux. 

Le  monde  entier  tressaille  d'esperance 

A  cette  nuit  qui  lui  donne  un  sauveur. 

Peuple  £  genoux,  attends  ta  delivrance; 

Noel,  Noel,  void  le  Redempteur! 

As  impossible,  even  without  Christopher,  to  get  away 
from  the  spirit  of  the  festival  as  to  get  away  from  Boulogne! 


CHRISTOPHER  133 

Need  she  strive  to  get  away  from  either?  John  Hemming, 
sitting  near  the  piano,  and  with  his  eyes  on  her  face  as  she 
sang,  did  not  look  to  her  troubled  (any  more  than,  to  Christ- 
opher, he  had  looked  "entangled"  or  "wretched");  and 
Anne  herself  could  not  deny  that  upon  this  Christmas 
night  she  at  any  rate  was  quietly  happy. 

She  sang  one  or  two  more  songs  after  that :  "The  Bridge," 
by  Miss  Lindsay,  which  was  still  in  every  amateur's  reper- 
tory then;  and,  with  a  vague  notion  that  Christopher  up- 
stairs might  be  listening  to  her,  his  favourite  "Ballad  of 
Lord  Lovel  and  the  Lady  Ancebel." 

"Lord  Lovel"  was  a  favourite  with  General  Hemming, 
too,  it  seemed.  He  rose  from  his  chair  by  the  fire  and  came 
over  to  the  piano.  He  stood  by  his  son.  He  did  not  look 
at  him,  but  his  look,  as  Anne  knew,  held  him  for  all  that. 
Again  she  became  conscious  of  that  inner  song.  She  could 
not  mistake  it.  It  was  audible  to  her  as  her  own  singing. 
She  had  to  steady  her  own  voice  as  she  listened. 

"  They  grew  till  they  grew  to  the  top  of  the  church, 
And  when  they  could  grow  no  higher, 
They  grew  into  a  true  lover's  knot, 
And  so  were  joined  together." 

As  clear  as  this:  Which  was  lost  and  is  found.  Which  was 
dead  and  is  alive  again. 

But  was  he  alive  again?  She  looked  at  the  unblemished 
face.  Had  he  been  dead?  Death  even  in  life  must  leave 
its  mark.  Death  had  not  marked  him.  He  was  as  the  three 
who  had  come  up  out  of  the  furnace  unscathed.  Not  so 
much  as  the  smell  of  fire  had  passed  over  him.  Was  he  then 
any  more  alive  again  than  he  had  been  dead? 

She  put  the  thought  from  her. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

CHRISTOPHER,  sure  enough,  had  heard  "Lord  Lovel  and 
Lady  Ancebel,"  and  was  still  awake  when  his  mother  went 
up  to  bed.  Trimmer  had  been  called  in  that  he  might  hear 
what  she  had  to  tell  of  festivities  below  the  salt.  Yes,  they 
had  naturally  had  turkey,  too,  —  and,  for  those  who  liked 
them,  oysters  first,  for  that  matter,  just  like  the  dining- 
room,  —  and  of  course  everything  else.  Crackers  with 
mottoes.  Trimmer  had  kept  her  caps  for  him.  He  should 
have  them  in  the  morning.  But  he  should  have  seen  Ollen- 
shaw  in  hers!  Ollenshaw  in  a  cocked  hat  with  a  bunch  of 
paper  feathers.  Ollenshaw  in  a  Scotch  bonnet  with  a  paper 
thistle  on  one  side  and  two  little  paper  ribbons  behind! 
Mr.  Robson,  too.  He  had  worn  an  old  lady's  hood  with 
paper  ruchings,  and  did  look  a  droll. 

"Christopher,  Christopher,  why  aren't  you  asleep? 
Trimmer,  are  you  keeping  him  awake?  Tell  him  he's  to 
go  to  sleep  this  instant." 

But  she  had  to  go  into  his  room,  all  the  same.  Did  n't 
she  hope?  .  .  .  Yes,  on  the  whole,  though  she  was  not 
sure  that  she  liked  the  cold,  and  his  grandmother  was  sure 
that  she  did  n't. 

Was  n't  she  glad  Mr.  Hemming  .  .  .  ? 

Selfishly,  if  Mr.  Hemming  instead  of  Christopher's 
mother  would  hold  Christopher  up  while  he  floundered. 
Now,  go  to  sleep.  But  one  more  thing,  and  one  more,  and 
in  one  minute,  and  so  on. 

"I  knew  it  was  nonsense  about  not  being  able  to  know 
him,"  said  Christopher. 

She  left  it  at  that  —  and  him  also.  In  time,  it  is  to  be 
supposed,  he  went  to  sleep. 

The  frost  held.  A  few  intrepid  or  foolhardy  spirits  ven- 


CHRISTOPHER  135 

tured  upon  the  ice  at  their  own  risk  the  next  day,  and  a 
youth  got  a  ducking  for  his  pains.  All  was  as  it  should  be. 
He  could  be  held  up  as  an  awful  example  to  Christopher, 
who  could  thus,  with  a  reasonableness  which  was  demon- 
strable, be  kept  off  till  the  safer  morrow.  Skates  —  Boxing- 
Day  though  it  was  —  were  secured  that  afternoon  in  the 
neighbouring  town,  where  every  ironmonger's  shop,  how- 
soever closed,  could  yet  be  seen  to  have  broken  out  into 
skates.  The  word  was  gummed  to  window  panes;  the 
things  themselves  could  be  seen  hanging  in  clusters  within. 
A  surreptitious  business  was  done  at  a  side  door.  It  was 
enough,  Christopher's  grandmother  said,  to  set  the  frost 
by  the  heels  without  further  ado. 

The  frost  was  not  to  be  frightened.  The  thermometer 
fell  steadily.  A  clear  keen  night  gave  place  to  a  clear  keen 
day,  and  after  breakfast  there  might  have  been  seen  cross- 
ing the  park  a  little  cavalcade  consisting  of  Anne  Herrick, 
Christopher,  and  Trimmer,  followed  discreetly  by  wooden 
Albert,  the  ventriloquist,  with  a  folding-chair,  a  bunch  of 
skates,  and  a  gimlet. 

Ten  o'clock  struck  from  the  clock  over  the  stables  as  they 
reached  the  lake.  Early  as  they  were,  John  Hemming  was 
there  before  them.  Christopher  saw  him  at  once.  Anne 
saw  him.  He  skated  up  as  they  approached. 

For  Christopher,  who  had  only  slidden  on  ice  heretofore, 
a  whole  set  of  impressions.  These  began  with  the  putting- 
on  of  the  skates.  He  watched  with  fascination  the  boring, 
by  Albert,  of  the  holes  in  the  heels  of  his  boots.  It  was  like 
having  an  operation  performed  upon  you  yourself  —  only 
that  it  did  not  hurt.  It  felt  as  if  the  gimlet  was  being 
screwed  into  you,  only  that  you  did  n't  feel  more  than  an 
insinuating  pressure.  Presently  surely  the  point  must  come 
through.  But  it  did  n't.  Horses  must  feel  something  like 
this,  he  thought,  when  they  were  being  shod.  Then  the 
screwing,  the  whole  skate  being  twisted  in  Albert's  com- 
petent red  hand;  the  feeling  of  tension  as  the  screw  bit. 


136  CHRISTOPHER 

After  that,  tight  strapping.  Discomfort  enough  for  unac- 
customed feet. 

Then  the  hobbling  walk  to  the  ice;  the  ice  itself;  the 
pride  that  went  before  a  fall;  the  acceptance  of  rejected 
aid  —  from  his  mother,  from  John  Hemming,  from  Trim- 
mer, from  wooden  Albert.  We  leave  him  to  his  first  floun- 
dering. 

It  wanted  but  the  feel  under  her  feet  of  the  blades  cut- 
ting into  the  elastic  ice,  as  she  swung  out  on  to  the  lake,  to 
tell  Anne  once  for  all  that,  if  much  seemed  to  have  hap- 
pened to  her,  and,  thus,  many  years  to  have  passed  over 
her  head,  she  was  not  so  very  much  older  than  the  eager 
Christopher  himself.  Skating  in  that  ladylike  age  was  one 
of  the  few  sports  open  to  women.  It  was  Anne's  one  accom- 
plishment. Like  a  good  swimmer  she  struck  out  confidently, 
sure,  in  spite  of  the  lapse  of  time  since  last  she  had  skated, 
that  she  could  skate.  The  outside  edge  was  the  limit  as 
yet  of  her  modest  attainment;  but  what  else  she  could 
do  she  did  well,  and  what  she  had  been  able  to  do  she  could 
do  now.  Her  spirits  rose.  People  were  arriving.  A  carriage 
or  two  drove  up  to  the  bank  of  the  lake  and  in  effect  emptied 
itself  on  to  the  ice.  The  whir  of  the  skating  rang  on  the 
pleasant  air.  Sunshine  gilded  the  day. 

Anne  recognised  a  few  people.  Here  were  neighbours 
of  her  mother-in-law's  who  had  called  upon  her  when  she 
had  stayed  at  Herrickswood  as  a  bride.  Some  of  them 
recognised  her.  The  usual  civilities  were  exchanged.  Christ- 
opher had  to  be  shown  to  one  or  two  of  these.  They  re- 
minded him  of  the  people  to  whom  he  used  to  be  bidden 
to  give  his  right  hand  —  visitors,  in  short,  which  is  just 
what,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  they  were.  He  got  back 
as  soon  as  might  be  to  his  floundering.  Hemming  took  him 
in  hand  from  time  to  time  —  bidding  him  put  his  feet  to- 
gether, towed  him  gently,  or,  holding  him  under  the  arms, 
pushed  him  in  front  of  him.  Christopher  at  such  moments 
was  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  delight.  His  laughter  rang 


CHRISTOPHER  137 

out.  Anne,  looking  at  the  big  man  and  the  little  boy,  felt 
again  the  tightening  at  her  heart  which  she  had  felt  when 
she  stood  at  the  foot  of  Christopher's  bed  months  ago  at 
Boulogne. 

"He'll  skate  in  no  time,"  Hemming  said,  bringing  the 
boy  back  to  her  after  one  such  round. 

"I  nearly  knocked  him  down,"  said  Christopher  glee- 
fully. 

"  Don't  let  him  tease  you,"  said  Christopher's  mother. 

John  Hemming  delivered  Christopher  to  his  floundering 
and  Trimmer. 

"Mr.  Hemming  says  I'm  better  every  time.  Where's 
Albert?" 

Albert  had  gone  back  to  the  house. 

"Oh,  well,  then  you'll  do,"  said  Christopher. 

"  Do,  indeed ! "  said  Trimmer  good-humouredly.  "  There, 
give  me  your  hand,  sir." 

John  Hemming  went  back  to  Christopher's  mother. 

"Will  you  skate  with  me?" 

He  had  not  asked  her  to  skate  with  him,  though  he  had 
skated  beside  her. 

"Yes,  John,  of  course." 

They  swung  out  together. 

Impossible  to  withstand  the  pleasure  of  this  exercise! 
Anne  felt  her  cheeks  flush  and  her  eyes  sparkle,  as  she  gave 
herself  up  to  it.  She  was  a  girl  again,  skating  at  Chelten- 
ham and  known  as  the  Pretty  Miss  Oxeter  —  some  one 
Christopher  had  never  known  or  dreamed  of;  the  crino- 
lined "Belle"  of  a  certain  Bachelors'  Ball;  the  coveted 
partner  of  a  season's  very  amateurish  croquet.  "Long, 
long  ago, ' '  as  the  song  said  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it !  Not  any  time 
at  all,  measured  by  her  feelings  that  day.  Christopher  was 
some  younger  brother,  and  she  as  always  the  youngest 
Miss  Oxeter.  She  sent  a  thought  over  the  water  to  Laura 
and  Catherine,  whose  pet  she  had  been  before  she  married, 
half  wishing  they  could  see  her;  and  to  her  mother,  wholly 
wishing  that  she  could. 


I38  CHRISTOPHER 

Then  she  remembered  that  Laura  and  Catherine  would 
be  shocked.  Not  at  her  skating,  —  though  even  that  might 
surprise  them,  —  but  at  her  company.  That  brought  her 
up  with  a  jerk. 

There  were  more  people  now.  Mrs.  Herrick  came  down 
in  her  pony-chair  at  noon,  and  looked  on  for  a  time  and 
asked  a  few  of  her  more  intimate  friends  up  to  lunch.  She 
wore  the  inevitable  sealskin  of  prosperity  or  average  pros- 
perity, and  a  bonnet  on  which  there  were  bugles,  which 
jingled  as  she  moved  her  head  in  talking.  A  groom,  who 
walked  beside  the  chair  when  he  drove  the  fat  pony,  stood 
to  attention  as  his  mistress  held  her  court. 

Every  one  came  up  to  speak  to  the  old  woman,  but  she 
had  her  favourites,  it  was  plain.  Anne,  like  Christopher, 
no  longer  afraid  of  her,  could  yet  see  why  she  had  been. 
She  remembered  how  she  had  agreed  with  Christopher 
that  his  other  grandmother  was  "most"  his  grandmother, 
and  was  glad  now  to  think  that  she  had  recanted  almost  as 
soon  as  the  words  were  spoken. 

"If  the  frost  lasts,  I  think  you'll  have  to  give  me  a  few 
more  days,"  Mrs.  Herrick  said,  smiling  as  she  watched 
Christopher's  scuttling.  He  was  getting  past  the  first 
stages.  "It's  Sunday  again  to-morrow,  remember,  in 
this  week  of  Sundays,  and  it's  plain  that  boy  wants  to 
skate." 

They  were  to  have  left  on  Monday.  The  rooms  in  Ebury 
Street  were  engaged  indeed  from  then. 

"You  tempt  me,"  Anne  said. 

"Stay,  dear,  as  long  as  you  will  —  as  long  as  you  can. 
It 's  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  have  Kit 's  boy  with  me,  and 
Kit's  boy's  mother.  There,  think  it  over.  I  'm  going  on 
for  my  drive." 

The  groom  took  the  reins  and  his  place  beside  the  chair, 
and  Mrs.  Herrick  was  drawn  from  the  scene.  There  was 
rime  on  the  grass,  and  the  equipage,  dark  against  the  white, 
and  clear-cut  as  a  silhouette,  could  be  seen  making  its  slow 
round  of  the  park  as  its  occupant  looked  at  her  trees  or  her 


CHRISTOPHER  139 

roads,  her  fences  or  her  gates.  Woe  betide  the  perfunctory 
or  the  careless  workman  on  the  Herrickswood  estate. 

Trimmer,  enjoying  herself  quietly  amid  the  general 
bustle,  thought  suddenly  what  a  Pair  her  mistress  and  Mr. 
Hemming  made  when  they  skated  together.  The  thought 
came  suddenly,  but  what  led  to  it  was  probably  gradual 
enough.  The  mere  sight  of  them  with  crossed  hands  sweep- 
ing rhythmically  across  the  ice  would  not  have  given  her 
the  feeling  of  one  who  makes  a  discovery,  or  who  sees  what 
others  may  be  looking  at,  but  do  not  see.  The  two  were 
not,  indeed,  skating  together  at  the  moment  when  Trim- 
mer received  her  impression.  On  the  contrary,  her  mistress 
was  standing  at  the  edge  of  the  ice  talking  to  one  of  the 
ladies  who  had  gathered  round  Mrs.  Herrick's  pony-chair; 
and  Mr.  Hemming  was  tracing  wonderful  and  beautiful 
figures  with  a  stumpy  little  person,  though  an  accom- 
plished skater,  whom  Albert  had  pointed  out  to  her  as  one 
of  the  big-wigs  of  the  neighbourhood.  The  unavoidable 
contrast  presented  by  these  two,  his  tall  shapeliness  and 
the  big-wig's  sturdy  squatness,  may  have  had  its  share  in 
throwing  Trimmer's  thoughts  back  to  the  last  combina- 
tion of  which  one  of  them  had  been  part.  Such  a  look-back 
must  of  necessity  have  shown  congruity  for  ill-assortment, 
and  thus  have  appeared  to  point  out,  to  lay  stress  upon, 
what  was,  after  all,  for  all  the  world  to  see.  But,  at  the 
back  of  the  mind  of  Trimmer  making  her  trite  observation, 
lay  who  knows  what  of  other,  but  unregistered,  impres- 
sions, preparing  her  for  what  she  had  none  the  less  sup- 
posed herself  unprepared  to  see?  A  Pair.  Why,  what  a 
Pair! 

Trimmer  leant  upon  the  handle  of  the  broom  which  she 
had  been  plying  betweentimes  to  make  herself  useful  and 
keep  herself  warm.  Christopher  wanted  less  and  less  help 
as  the  morning  went  on.  He  had  ceased  to  shuffle  and  walk 
upon  his  skates,  and  was  beginning  to  feel  his  legs.  He 
would  strike  out  and  make  headway  till  a  fall  brought  him 


140  CHRISTOPHER 

back  to  starting-point.  Trimmer,  leaning  on  her  broom, 
watched  him  absently. 

A  Pair,  in  truth,  —  though  such  a  thought  might  never 
have  entered,  might  never  enter,  the  head  of  either  of  them. 
They  seemed  picked  out  from  the  rest,  for  all  that,  if  in 
reality  they  were  not.  There  were  many  better  skaters  on 
the  ice  than  Trimmer's  mistress,  one  or  two  as  good  as  Mr. 
Hemming.  Yet  somehow  you  found  yourself  putting  them 
together,  did  n't  you?  They  looked  best,  it  was  certain, 
together.  With  no  one  else,  that  is,  did  either  "match" 
as  with  the  other.  Was  it  the  lady's-maid  in  Trimmer 
finding  her  out?  What  a  Pair  they  made  —  words  surely 
to  be  spoken  from  over  a  sewing-machine ;  at  the  wardrobe 
door,  the  arms  full  of  skirts;  across  a  dressing-table,  the 
head  craned  towards  a  window!  Lady's-maidery,  Trimmer 
knew  it.  The  thought,  however,  insisted  upon  expression, 
and  expression  upon  this  phrase  and  no  other.  Such  a  Pair ! 

"You  looked  so  nice,  'm,  skating,"  she  permitted  herself 
that  night,  as  she  was  putting  her  mistress  to  bed. 

"Did  I,  Trimmer?  I'm  very  glad  you  thought  so." 

"  I  'm  sure  every  one  thought  so.  Indeed,  I  heard  the 
remark  passed  more  than  once.  There  must  be  some  satis- 
faction in  doing  a  thing  which  —  when  you  do  it  grace- 
fully, of  course  —  makes  you  look  so  much  better  than 
anybody  else." 

Christopher's  mother  smiled.  She  knew  her  limitations, 
and  that  she  would  never  be  anything  more  than  an  aver- 
agely  good  skater.  She  was  not  of  the  stuff  that  those  who 
really  excel  are  made  of.  Christopher  might  be.  He  had 
not  been  wrong  when  he  said  that  in  good  time  he  would 
beat  her. 

"Ah,  you're  prejudiced,  my  good  Trimmer.  I'm  not 
bad,  considering  how  little  opportunity  I  've  had  of  prac- 
tising. But  I  should  never  go  far  — " 

"Oh,  distance,"  said  Trimmer  contemptuously.  "It's 
gracefulness  I'm  talking  about  — all  that  matters  for  a 
lady." 


CHRISTOPHER  141 

"Well,  I  did  n't  mean  distance.  I  can't  progress.  Now 
he,"  she  nodded  in  the  direction  of  Christopher's  room, 
"really  did  make  some  progress  to-day.  Mrs.  Herrick  has 
asked  us  to  stay  on  if  the  frost  lasts  — " 

"I  hope  it  will,  'm,"  said  Trimmer. 

It  was  accepting  the  imaginary  situation. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WAS  it  imaginary?  Trimmer  of  course  really  thought  so, 
though  she  might  Pair  the  suitable  to  infinity.  She  even 
took  herself  to  task  for  presuming  to  think  at  all.  Anne 
Herrick  did  think  so,  told  herself  so,  insisted.  It  was,  be- 
cause it  must  be.  She  naturally  took  herself  to  task,  or 
rather  continued  to  do  so.  The  frost  lasted.  She  saw  him 
every  day,  skated  with  him,  talked  to  him;  got  away  from 
Herrickswood  safely. 

Safely?  There  was  something,  then?  —  some  sort  of  a 
situation?  Certainly  not.  Every  one  in  the  world  might 
have  heard  what  they  said  to  each  other  on  the  ice  or  else- 
where. Certainly  there  was  no  situation.  But  she  drew  a 
long  breath  in  the  train,  and  many  in  the  lodgings  in  Ebury 
Street. 

She  was  very  sorry  to  leave  Herrickswood.  She  had  not 
altogether  looked  forward  to  her  visit,  but  had,  as  she 
found,  greatly  enjoyed  it.  Wholly  new  relations  seemed  to 
have  established  themselves  between  her  and  her  mother- 
in-law.  It  was  as  if,  somehow  by  reason  of  Christopher, 
each  had  seen  the  other  in  a  new  light.  The  more  she 
thought  of  her  visit — reviewed  it  in  detail  —  the  more  she 
knew  that  she  had  enjoyed  it.  It  had  been  a  time  of  quiet 
well-being  with  an  undercurrent  of  excitement.  (The 
excitement  remained.)  A  thought  of  Herrickswood  gave 
her  not  the  severe  hall,  its  severity  modified  by  evergreens 
and  red  berries,  not  the  candle-lit  drawing-room  of  state, 
not  even  her  own  room  with  the  great  four-post  bed,  not 
the  old  oak  or  the  tapestries,  but  a  little  intimate  room  in 
which  an  old  lady  with  a  black  velvet  glove  mended  rather 
than  tended  a  blazing  fire.  Some  such  picture  would  al- 
ways henceforth  present  Herrickswood  to  her. 


CHRISTOPHER  143 

She  drew  her  breath  all  the  same.  The  undercurrent  of 
excitement  had  not  made  itself  felt  for  nothing.  Herricks- 
wood  stood  for  danger  as  once  Boulogne  for  disturbance. 

Another  rattling  four-wheeler  with  straw  in  the  bottom 
of  it  took  the  travellers  to  Ebury  Street.  Another  just  such 
meal  as  before  regaled  them  upon  their  arrival.  To  the 
same  sounds  did  Christopher  fall  asleep.  Even  the  drip- 
ping in  the  cistern  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  was  still  to  be 
heard.  After  the  silence  of  the  country  the  wonderful 
noises  sounded  a  little  louder,  but  that  was  all  the  differ- 
ence ;  and  the  same  sense  of  being  in  the  very,  very  heart 
of  things  held  him. 

Christopher,  with  a  sovereign  in  his  pocket  and  the 
world  before  him,  did  not  employ  time  present  in  vainly 
regretting  time  past.  He  had  enjoyed  every  minute  of 
Herrickswood,  and  now  was  enjoying  every  minute  of 
London.  All  was  fish  that  came  to  his  net.  For  Robson 
and  his  efficient  wooden  satellites,  for  Mrs.  Wellington  of 
the  housekeeper's  room,  for  Ollenshaw  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  orderly  staff  of  well-trained  servants,  there  were  a 
landlord  in  rusty  black,  a  landlady  with  a  perpetual  smile 
and  a  chenille  net,  and  the  usual  Mary-Ann  of  all  lodging- 
houses  of  that  day.  These  persons,  however,  jointly  and 
severally  succeeded  in  interesting  the  ever-interested 
Christopher. 

If  Boulogne  had  seemed  wonderful,  what  of  London? 
Surely  all  the  people  in  the  world  must  be  there  together. 
Some  of  the  streets  ran  people  as  rivers  run  water.  Not  all. 
Ebury  Street  was  never  crowded,  nor  were  the  adjacent 
streets  with  the  great  squares  in  between,  Eaton  Square 
where  "grand"  people  lived  (and  his  Grandmother  Her- 
rick  used  to  have  a  house),  and  Belgrave  Square  where 
grander.  Nor  was  Grosvenor  Place  crowded,  though  it 
could  be,  his  mother  said,  when  on  a  certain  day  in  the 
spring  the  balconies  were  filled  with  gentlemen  and  ladies 
to  watch  other  people  coming  back  from  the  Derby.  But 


144  CHRISTOPHER 

Oxford  Street  and  Regent  Street  and  a  street  called  the 
Strand !  —  and  another  street  called  Fleet  Street,  through 
which  Christopher  passed  when  he  went  to  St.  Paul's! 
In  those  the  people  were  numberless  —  like  the  sands  of 
the  sea  or  the  hairs  of  your  head,  as  it  said  in  the  Bible. 
Christopher  gasped  for  sheer  amazement  and  delight.  This 
was  the  London  of  his  wildest  dreams.  Not  the  least  part 
of  its  fascination  was  an  unacknowledged  fear  of  it.  Things 
happened  in  London  —  murders,  mysterious  disappear- 
ances. Children  were  stolen  for  their  clothes,  "enticed" 
down  courts  and  alleys,  dragged  away,  pulled  in,  perhaps, 
through  such  doorways  as  he  himself  passed  when  he  was 
out,  and  nothing  more  was  ever  heard  of  them.  Some  one 
called  "Mrs.  Tomson"  (though  how  he  had  heard  of  her!) 
had  lately  been  hanged  for  wholesale  child-murder.  She 
buried  the  little  bodies  of  her  victims  in  quicklime,  and 
was  altogether  a  creature  of  horror  to  haunt  the  young 
imagination.  He  looked  for  Mrs.  Tomsons  on  his  walks. 
Many  harmless  black-clad  women  were  Mrs.  Tomsons,  he 
was  sure.  Then  there  were  Pickpockets  whom  you  were  to 
Beware  of,  with  every  other  sort  of  rogue  and  knave.  You 
might  be  rubbing  shoulders  with  Pickpockets  without 
knowing  it.  They  were  trained,  according  to  his  mother 
(or  so  he  understood),  by  an  old  Jew  called  Fagin,  of  whom 
he  was  to  read  one  day  in  something  called  "  Oliver  Twist." 
Christopher  suspected  a  Fagin  in  every  shabby  old  man 
who  had  a  hooked  nose,  and  a  Pickpocket  in  every  gutter- 
snipe. Perhaps  pockets  really  were  oftener  rifled  in  the 
seventies.  Trimmer,  at  any  rate,  had  the  distinction  of 
having  hers  picked  upon  this  very  visit  —  to  the  tune, 
happily,  of  no  more  than  a  few  pence,  however,  since  of 
her  forethought  she  was  carrying  the  bulk  of  her  wealth  in 
her  glove.  Christopher  knew  the  thief  was  one  of  two 
(probably  innocent)  persons  between  whom  she  had  sat 
in  an  onmibus,  because  one  had  a  patch  over  his  eye  and 
the  other  a  hole  in  his  elbow. 
Trimmer  could  only  ejaculate,  "How  lucky  I'd  emptied 


CHRISTOPHER  145 

my  purse!" — adding  from  time  to  time  that  if  they'd 
only  known  it,  she  had  been  carrying  half  a  sovereign  in 
gold  at  that  very  moment. 

"  But  there,"  she  said,  "  I  never  heard  of  any  one  picking 
a  glove." 

Christopher  and  his  mother  agreed  with  her  that  the 
thing  was  as  good  as  a  lesson. 

So  London  answered  every  expectation.  Christopher 
would  indeed  have  something  to  tell  the  stay-at-home 
aunts  when  he  got  back  to  Boulogne.  He  had  visited  the 
capital  of  England  to  good  purpose.  It  had  not  denied  him. 

The  day  after  the  picked  pocket,  Trimmer  started  for 
Birmingham,  where,  as  it  had  been  arranged,  she  was  to 
spend  a  few  days  with  her  parents,  and  Christopher  and 
his  mother  pursued  their  sight-seeing  alone.  Every  morning 
after  breakfast  they  would  start  out  on  their  excursions. 
Sometimes  they  would  lunch  out,  choosing  a  pastry-cook's 
shop  for  their  modest  repast,  and,  in  holiday  mood,  eating 
with  impunity  many  things  ordinarily  called  unwholesome. 
Madame  Tussaud's  Exhibition  was  visited,  and  there,  in  a 
room  known  as  the  Chamber  of  Horrors. and  costing  an 
extra  sixpence  to  enter,  Christopher  saw  an  effigy  of  Mrs. 
Tomson  herself  —  lately  added!  He  thrilled,  but  was 
vaguely  disappointed.  He  had  pictured  her  this,  you  see, 
and  she  was  notably  that.  He  saw  a  respectable  little 
woman  in  a  brown  dress,  with  nothing  sinister  about  her 
but  her  very  white  face.  She  did  not  alarm  him  except 
when  he  met  her  in  dreams. 

The  Zoological  Gardens  were  visited  —  and,  lo!  they 
were  the  Bird-Shop  on  the  Port  in  apotheosis!  For  the 
dogs  in  the  cages,  there  were  lions ;  for  the  cats,  tigers ;  for 
the  birds,  such  winged  things,  some  of  them,  as  he  had  never 
imagined.  But  all  were  friends  of  his  already.  He  went  an 
ecstatic  way  from  cage  to  cage,  from  house  to  house.  Per- 
haps the  greatest  excitement  lay  in  wondering  whither  each 
path  in  the  gardens  led,  what  each  fresh  house  as  it  dis- 
covered itself  amongst  the  trees  would  be  found  to  hold.  On 


I46  CHRISTOPHER 

a  path  near  the  parrot-house  he  ran  up  against  one  of  his 
school-fellows,  and  that  too  was  a  great  adventure.  Oh, 
London,  which  could  yield  such  adventures,  was  wonderful! 

London  was  all-capable,  and  was  to  yield  him  others. 

He  saw  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  one  day.  He  was  sure  of  it. 
That  was  the  day  he  went  to  the  Polytechnic  where  the 
diving-bell  was.  She  was  driving  with  a  gentleman  in  a 
victoria.  She  looked  different,  somehow,  from  Mr.  Hem- 
ming's  Mrs.  St.  Jemison.  But  that  it  had  been  she  who 
flashed  past  behind  two  high-stepping  horses  he  was  quite, 
quite  sure. 

"Fancy,  if  she'd  known  that  we'd  just  seen  Mr.  Hem- 
ming," he  said.  "She'd  have — "  He  looked  at  his  mother 
and  broke  off  in  what  more  he  had  been  about  to  say. 

"I  thought  I  told  you,  Christopher — " 

"Yes,  but  not  in  London." 

"Well,  in  London,  too." 

She  had  seen,  and,  if  she  was  not  mistaken,  Mrs.  St. 
Jemison  had  seen  also,  and  had  recognised.  Anne  wished 
this  had  not  happened. 

And  she  asked  herself  why.  But  somehow  wished  .  .  . 

To  Christopher  it  was  part  of  the  wonderfulness  of  Lon- 
don—  where  everything  was  wonderful.  Nowhere  else, 
he  was  sure,  would  you  come  across  people  in  this  way.  Per- 
haps they  would  even  see  Mr.  Hemming.  This  he  ventured 
to  say  aloud.  His  mother  had  to  collect  her  thoughts  before 
she  said  that  she  thought  That  was  very  Unlikely. 

"So  was  Mrs.  —  well,  so  was  Eddy  Mason ! "  He  named 
the  schoolboy  they  had  met  in  Regent's  Park. 

"So  was  he  what?" 

"Unlikely,"  said  Christopher. 

"We'll  go  and  have  tea,"  said  his  mother. 

Every  second  shop  then  was  not  a  tea-shop.  It  took 
them  some  minutes  to  find  one. 

But  Christopher  was  to  be  proved  more  correct  than  she. 
Might  she  not  have  told  herself  that  it  was  generally  the 


CHRISTOPHER  147 

Unlikely  that  did  happen?  —  more,  that  it  was  for  their 
very  unlikeliness  that  the  things  which  happened  did  hap- 
pen? Whom  should  they  meet  the  next  day  but  John 
Hemming?  Whom  else? 

They  came  upon  him  face  to  face  at  Hyde  Park  Corner. 

"I  wondered,"  he  said,  "whether  I  should  meet  you 
anywhere." 

He  did  not  say  that  he  had  spent  the  last  few  days  look- 
ing for  them.  A  log  of  his  peregrinations  would  have  re- 
corded an  erratic  course.  He  had  been  to  Madame  Tus- 
saud's  even. 

"  I  said  we  should  meet  you  —  at  least,  I  said  we  might," 
said  Christopher  breathlessly.  "But  mother  did  n't  think 
it  was  likely." 

"Christopher  met  a  school  friend,"  Anne  hastened  to 
say,  "and  argued  by  analogy.  If  he  made  one  unexpected 
encounter  —  you  see?  " 

"  I  see,"  said  John  Hemming.  "And  there  was  something 
in  your  argument  after  all,  was  n't  there,  little  chap?" 

"Things  happen  for  Christopher,"  Anne  said,  smiling. 
She  was  beginning  to  think  so. 

"We're  going  to  the  Christy  Minstrels,"  said  Christo- 
pher, still  breathlessly.  "Could  n't  you  come,  too?  Could 
n't  he,  mummy?" 

"Christopher,  don't  bother  people.  Mr.  Hemming  does 
n't  want  to  go  to  Christy  Minstrels.  They  are  n't  the  sort 
of  thing  — " 

"Aren't  they?"  said  John  Hemming,  looking  at  her. 
"Doesji'the?" 

"  He  does,"  said  Christopher.  "  I  know  he  does,  mother." 

Anne  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  In  the  daytime?  On  a  fine  afternoon  like  this?  Chris- 
topher and  I  are  country  cousins  —  or  exiles  home  again." 

"May  n't  I  be  an  exile?  Home  again,  too?" 

He  did  not  mean  it,  or,  anyway,  quite  mean  it.  But 
Anne  in  a  moment  saw  his  father  and  heard  again  the  silent 
song  of  thanksgiving. 


148  CHRISTOPHER 

"If  it  really  would  n't  bore  you." 
His  answer  was  to  smile  at  Christopher  and  to  call  a  cab. 
They  all  got  in  and  he  gave  the  direction. 

After  the  Christy  Minstrels,  it  was  the  Tower ;  after  the 
Tower,  the  Pantomime  at  Drury  Lane;  after  the  Panto- 
mime, Westminster  Abbey  and  the  Houses  of  Parliament. 
John  Hemming  went  with  them  to  all  these.  How  this 
came  about  Anne  hardly  knew.  It  seemed  to  be  Christo- 
pher who  was  responsible. 

So  slipped  the  days  away.  They  hurried  towards  — 
Anne  knew  not  what !  But  that  they  hurried  towards  some- 
thing, she  knew  only  too  well.  Two  thirds  of  the  visit  were 
over.  She  began  to  look  to  Boulogne  as  she  had  once  looked 
to  London.  It  was  Boulogne  now  that  stood  for  safety. 

Christopher,  living  to  a  running  accompaniment  of  pan- 
tomime tunes,  of  the  tunes  of  the  Moore  and  Burgess  Min- 
strels, with  imported  airs  from  Offenbach  behind  all,  saw 
nothing  of  what  was  under  his  eyes.  There  was  nothing 
to  see,  in  a  sense,  and  certainly  nothing  to  hear.  It  was  only 
his  mother  who  knew  and  whose  heart  beat  the  faster.  He, 
if  he  thought  at  all,  thought  that  John  Hemming  was  there 
because  he,  Christopher,  was.  In  the  supreme  egoism  of 
youth,  he  had  not  come  yet  to  realise  any  existence  entirely 
independent  of  his  own. 

"You're  coming  to-morrow,  are  n't  you?"  he  said  every 
day,  and  Anne  sometimes  checked  him,  and  sometimes  did 
not.  It  seemed  useless  to  protest.  As  she  looked  to  Bou- 
logne, so  she  looked  now  to  the  return  of  Trimmer,  whose 
absence  seemed  in  a  manner  to  leave  her  without  shelter. 
Not  that  she  wanted  shelter  exactly,  or  wanted  anything. 
She  was  enjoying  the  dangers  of  London  as  she  had  en- 
joyed the  dangers  of  Herrickswood.  Her  life  was  fuller  for 
this  new  element  that  had  come  into  it.  But  ...  It  was 
Trimmer's  own  But  of  an  earlier  occasion. 

Trimmer  wrote  from  Birmingham.  She  too  had  been 
to  a  Pantomime,  and  had  wished  for  Master  Christopher. 


CHRISTOPHER  149 

She  wished  particularly  that  he  could  have  seen  Cinderella's 
Ugly  Sisters,  who  would  have  made  him  laugh.  Trimmer's 
mother  had  got  quite  a  stitch  in  her  side,  and  Trimmer's 
brother's  little  girl  a  hiccough.  But  both  had  admitted 
that  the  game  was  worth  the  candle.  Trimmer  had  been  to 
a  party  at  her  cousin's  and  had  played  games.  Her  cousin 
had  worn  an  evening  dress,  which  Trimmer  thought  was 
giving  herself  great  airs,  and  which  was  quite  out  of  place 
—  besides  being  in  very  doubtful  taste.  The  party  itself, 
however,  had  been  very  agreeable.  She  was  enjoying  her 
holiday,  but  was  counting  the  days  till  she  should  get  back, 
all  the  same. 

"  You  can't  think  how  I  miss  Master  Christopher,"  was 
her  postscript  for  her  mistress's  private  eye.  "And  I  can't 
bear  to  think,  madam,  of  your  having  to  do  your  own  hair, 
I  can't,  indeed." 

"Dear  Trimmer,"  Christopher's  mother  said  to  herself 
as  she  read. 

In  the  end  the  good  creature  came  back  a  day  before 
her  holiday  was  up.  Her  nostalgia  —  a  homesickness,  at 
home,  for  the  home  of  her  adoption  —  would  not  allow  her 
to  stay  her  time  out. 

Anne  Herrick  kissed  her  upon  her  arrival  —  a  sight  which 
gave  Christopher  a  curious  feeling  of  surprise  mixed  with 
pleasure.  He  took  Trimmer  for  granted  himself,  but 
though  he  on  his  part  only  greeted  her  with  "Hulloa!"  and 
barely  submitted  to  her  embrace,  he  was  genuinely  at- 
tached to  her. 

Tears  had  sprung  to  Trimmer's  eyes  at  her  mistress's 
kiss. 

"'Olidays  are  all  very  well,  'm,  and  I'm  sure  I've  en- 
joyed myself  tremendously,  but  there's  nothing  like  get- 
ting back,  'm,  is  there?" 

Her  mistress  rallied  her. 

"What  will  you  do  when  he  goes  to  school?" 

Trimmer  shook  her  head. 

"He  need  n't  think  it's  him  only,"  she  said.    "It  is  n't 


150  CHRISTOPHER 

—  though  once  you've  been  a  nurse  .  .  .  Well,  there! 
And  to  think  I  shall  be  brushing  your  hair  again,  'm,  this 
very  evening." 

Yes,  Trimmer  was  one  of  the  Family  —  no  doubt  about 
that.  Christopher  sat  up  a  little  later  to  hear  all  her  news. 
She  came  back  from  Birmingham  full  of  adventures.  She 
had  had  a  proposal  amongst  others.  At  the  party  she  had 
met  the  gentleman  who  paid  her  this  attention.  Like  the 
piano-tuner,  he  was  in  a  superior  position  —  a  clurk,  in 
fact,  in  the  Post  Office. 

"What  did  you  say  to  him?"  asked  Christopher. 

"That  I  knew  when  I  was  well  off,  my  precious." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"Asked  me  to  think  it  over." 

"And  will  you?" 

"  I  said  I  could  do  that  while  he  waited." 

"Shall  you  tell  the  piano-tuner?" 

"Better  not,"  said  Trimmer.  "  Better  keep  some  one  in 
reserve,  I  think,  against  I  want  him." 

So  Trimmer  talked.  She  listened,  too,  and  heard  all 
the  London  doings.  She  heard  of  Mr.  Hemming's  presence 
without  showing  surprise  —  which  may  have  shown  that 
there  was  surprise  to  be  felt. 

"In  London,"  she  said.   "Fancy  that,  now."   No  more. 

Shelter?  How?  Anne  could  not  have  told.  Yet  with 
Trimmer  back,  assuredly  she  felt  more  secure.  There  was 
only  a  week  left  now,  and  then  she  would  be  in  sanctuary. 
She  thought  of  her  snug  drawing-room  in  the  green  shut- 
tered house,  the  lamp,  the  "  Cornhill  Magazine  "  from  Mer- 
ridew's:  an  attractive  picture.  Even  if  you  were  young,  it 
would  be  possible  to  grow  old  gently,  books  helping  — 
work,  and  the  faithful  Trimmer  somewhere  at  hand.  She 
saw  herself  and  Trimmer  growing  old  together.  By  degrees, 
perhaps,  as  the  sending  for  her  from  the  workroom  became 
more  frequent,  Trimmer  would  change  insensibly  from  a 
maid  to  a  companion.  Christopher  would  be  out  in  the 


CHRISTOPHER  151 

world,  of  course,  though  in  what  capacity  she  did  not 
know,  and  letters  would  come  from  him,  some  of  which 
she  would  read  to  Trimmer,  some,  keep  to  herself.  They 
would  talk  of  him,  she  and  Trimmer,  and  of  their  wonder- 
ful memories  of  his  childhood.  And  so  —  disturbing  things 
put  away  —  they  would  grow  old. 

And  then  the  sight  of  a  tall  figure  coming  down  the 
street,  or  the  sound  of  a  voice,  or  the  touch  of  a  hand,  would 
show  her  quite  a  different  picture,  in  which  growing  old 
would  be  put  off  indefinitely.  In  this  picture,  life  would  be 
seen  as  a  vigorous  strenuous  force  carrying  all  before  it,  an 
onward,  perhaps  an  upward,  movement;  or  as  a  business 
in  itself,  absorbing,  compelling,  not  a  mere  acquiescent 
drifting  with  wind  or  tide.  In  this  picture  Trimmer  did 
not  let  her  whole  youth  slip  by,  but  married  her  piano- 
tuner,  or  her  clurk,  or  another! 

There  were  presently  but  three  more  days;  but  two; 
there  was  only  to-morrow.  Then  it  was  found  that  Chris- 
topher, who  had  been  almost  everywhere  else,  had  not  been 
to  the  Crystal  Palace.  He  could  hardly  have  crammed 
more  into  his  holidays.  But  the  Crystal  Palace  —  to  have 
risked  missing  that!  There  was  happily  still  time.  The 
Crystal  Palace,  it  was  decided,  should  crown  the  visit. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  Crystal  Palace  for  Christopher  began  at  Victoria  — 
at  the  Booking-Office,  where,  wonderfully,  you  asked  for 
Return  Tickets  with  Admission,  and  heard  something  about 
High  and  Low  Levels.  The  journey  in  the  crowded  train, 
thereafter,  was  part  of  the  day's  pleasure.  One  mitiga- 
tion of  all  pleasure  there  was,  and  this  lay  in  the  fact  that 
Mr.  Hemming  had  not  known  of  the  proposed  jaunt,  and 
that  his  (Christopher's)  mother  for  some  reason  would 
not  write  to  volunteer  plans  that  chanced  to  have  been 
settled  after  Mr.  Hemming's  departure  on  the  preceding 
day.  He  had  spent  the  morning  with  them  at  the  Na- 
tional Gallery,  and  it  was  not  till  the  afternoon  that  this 
excursion  was  mooted.  He  would  be  disappointed,  Christ- 
opher was  sure,  and  had  been  inclined  to  argue;  but  his 
mother  would  not  write. 

Inwardly  she  was  herself  somewhat  exercised.  She  knew, 
though  nothing  had  been  said  about  the  morrow,  that 
Hemming  would  be  expecting  to  see  them  as  usual.  For 
the  very  reason  that  nothing  had  been  said,  she  knew  it, 
and,  also,  that  he  would  in  truth,  as  Christopher  argued, 
be  disappointed.  Yet  the  evening  had  passed  and  she  could 
not  bring  herself  to  write.  How  could  she  write?  It  would 
be  like  suggesting  that  he  should  come,  too.  Impossible! 
In  her  heart  of  hearts,  moreover,  she  was  afraid  of  this 
last  day.  In  the  end,  in  case  he  should  call,  she  left  a  mes- 
sage for  him  with  the  chenille-netted  landlady,  and  made  it 
as  disarming  as  might  be.  It  was  the  most  (and  the  least) 
she  could  do,  but  it  did  not  set  her  mind  at  rest. 

The  train  bore  them  onward.  They  reached  the  station. 
They  alighted. 

What  was  it  that  Christopher  had  expected?    Crystal 


CHRISTOPHER  153 

columns,  translucent  as  barley  sugar,  cut  glass  pillars, 
thick  transparent  walls?  Beams,  masonry,  floors,  stair- 
cases, all  of  clearest  glass?  The  New  Jerusalem  in  fine  old 
paste?  The  Heavenly  City  fashioned  of  a  single  diamond? 
A  palace  of  carved  ice?  Something  of  all  these.  His  first 
impression  was  one  of  stupendous  disappointment.  This, 
the  Crystal  Palace !  It  was  only  a  large  greenhouse.  Crys- 
tal! There  were  panes  like  these  in  the  greenhouses  at 
Herrickswood.  He  looked  up  at  the  vaulted  roof  with  a 
feeling  of  personal  injury. 

The  sloping  approach  up  the  long  covered  way  from  the 
station  had  been  well  enough.  It  had  whetted  curiosity. 
Every  moment  he  had  expected  the  vision  to  break  upon 
him  in  its  glory.  At  any  bend  he  had  thought  to  see  the 
crystal  portico  .  .  . 

A  greenhouse! 

He  grew  red.  He  was  too  old  to  burst  into  tears.  But  a 
conservatory,  a  greenhouse!  .  .  . 

"Don't  you  like  it?" 

His  mother  and  Trimmer,  both  uncomprehending,  saw. 

He  would  not  explain,  and  wandered  about  gloomily  for 
a  while.  They  exchanged  glances  over  his  head.  He 
walked  beside  them,  or  just  behind  them  —  not  ahead. 
His  mother,  pursuing  a  train  of  thought  of  her  own  (which 
in  point  of  fact  pursued  her!),  believed  him  to  be  regretting 
the  absence  of  John  Hemming.  Trimmer  fancied  that 
the  excitement  of  the  past  few  weeks  was  finding  him  out 
—  beginning  to  tell  upon  him.  But  in  reality  he  was  like 
people  at  some  play,  the  title  or  description  of  which  has 
misled  or  mystified  them.  The  spirit  of  the  place  had  not 
revealed  itself  to  him.  He  was  outside  its  intimacy;  kept 
outside  by  barriers  of  his  own  unconscious  building.  It  was 
quite  suddenly  that  the  barriers,  like  the  walls  of  Jericho 
at  the  sound  of  the  trumpet,  fell. 

Did  a  trumpet  sound?  Not  exactly.  For  it  was  nothing 
more  than  a  piano  somewhere  near  at  hand,  which,  breaking 
into  one  of  the  rattling  tunes  of  the  recent  pantomime  and 


154  CHRISTOPHER 

of  the  London  streets,  started  him  forward  on  eager  legs 
in  its  metallic  direction.  He  was  "ahead"  in  a  moment. 
No  more  acquiescent  goose-step,  no  more  lagging!  The 
piano  was  at  a  music-stall.  A  piece  of  music  lay  open  on  the 
folding  "rest,"  and  reading  from  it  a  haughty  young  lady 
with  mittened  fingers  sat  playing  the  song  of  the  moment. 
A  little  crowd  listened.  She  wet  her  first  finger  at  her  lip 
when  she  turned  over  the  page.  She  left  the  song  unfinished. 
But  Christopher  had  been  admitted  to  the  free-masonry 
of  the  place.  Almost  at  once  he  became  aware  of  a  very 
network  of  sounds  enclosed  under  the  glass  roof.  In  the 
mesh  you  might  distinguish  the  popping  of  a  pop-gun  ex- 
ploited for  the  tempting  of  some  child  at  some  stall,  the 
boom  and  whir  of  a  humming-top,  the  tinkle  of  many  mu- 
sical boxes,  with  the  sound  of  other  pianos  in  distant  places. 
There  was  a  buzzing  and  a  rattle  of  talk,  from  which  stood 
out,  "This  Way  for  the  Performing  Fleas,"  or  the  "Won- 
ders of  the  Microscope,"  or  "Smith's  Panorama  of  the 
Holy  Land,"  of  the  side-showmen.  There  was  a  remi- 
niscence for  Christopher  of  the  noises  of  the  fair  at  Bou- 
logne. "Take  your  seats  for  the  Marvellous  Grotto  Fam- 
ily, the  World's  Champion  Slack-Line  Performers."  At 
Boulogne  there  had  been  a  Champion  of  the  Slack  Wire 
with  the  curious  name  of  Milly  Ethel,  who  in  addition  to 
wire- walking  claimed  to  be  magnetic,  and  the  showman's 
cry  to  the  banging  of  the  big  drum  had  been  "Entrez, 
Messieurs,  Dames!  Allons  voir  ce  phenomene  artistique 
au  salon  de  Mees  Millee  Etelle!  Va  commencer.  Prenez 
vos  places."  Not  so  much  difference  in  the  cries.  The  fair 
under  a  roof.  Other  sounds  came  from  the  refreshment 
places,  whence  proceeded  a  continual  clatter  of  plates, 
knives  and  forks,  cups  and  saucers,  with  occasional  shiv- 
ering of  glasses  on  a  tray.  The  sound  of  teaspoons  rattling 
into  saucers  was  as  recurrent  as  that  of  the  drawing  of 
corks.  Through  all,  over  all,  under  all,  like  the  sound  of  the 
sea  behind  other  sounds,  was  heard  the  tramp  or  shuffle 
of  feet  on  the  boards.  That  which  he  received  then  was 


CHRISTOPHER  155 

as  good  as  that  which  he  relinquished !  It  was  one  sort  of 
palace  for  another,  that  was  all !  Later  from  the  grounds 
he  was  to  see  that  in  sunlight  it  was  not  called  "Crystal" 
wholly  for  nothing,  but  he  had  accepted  it  now  as  it  was, 
and  in  turn  been  accepted  of  it.  Like  London,  the  Crystal 
Palace,  recognising  her  own,  did  not  deny  him. 

His  mother  and  Trimmer  saw  the  remarkable  change  in 
him,  and  in  their  turn  did  some  accepting,  without,  how- 
ever, understanding.  Once  infected  with  the  zeal  of  the 
house,  he  wanted  to  see  everything  —  from  the  Pompeiian 
Courts  to  the  Courts  of  the  Performing  Fleas.  He  gathered 
and  imparted  information.  Pompeii,  he  told  Trimmer, 
had  been  destroyed  by  Vesuvius,  and  the  Performing 
Fleas  fed  on  the  Man's  Arm. 

"Disgusting!"  said  Trimmer. 

The  morning  was  spent  in  seeing  a  variety  of  sights  and 
in  running  up  against  the  great  clock,  the  Roman  letters 
on  which  were  so  many  feet  high  for  his  wonder,  and  the 
hands  so  many  feet  long.  In  their  perambulations  the  three 
were  always  coming  upon  it.  Christopher's  mother  did 
not  know  whether  it  was  as  big  as  or  bigger  than  the  clock 
at  Westminster.  It  was  a  landmark  anyway,  a  good  place 
to  meet  at,  if  people  got  separated  from  the  rest  of  the 
party.  Under  the  Clock,  it  seemed,  was  a  phrase  in  very 
constant  use  in  the  building. 

The  event  of  the  day  was  of  course  the  pantomime. 
Towards  that  the  whole  of  the  forenoon  set,  as  sunflowers 
turn  to  the  sun.  There  was  lunch  to  be  eaten  in  the  mean 
time,  however,  and  they  now  began  to  search  for  a  res- 
taurant which  should  satisfy  their  modest  requirements. 
They  wanted  a  sort  of  tea  for  luncheon  —  which  was, 
indeed,  what  most  other  people  were  having. 

The  choice  made,  an  English  waiter  took  their  orders; 
Anne  at  the  last  moment  changing  her  mind  in  favour  of 
coffee,  in  the  interests  of  the  next  meal,  at  which  tea  would 
be  essential,  and  Christopher  his  —  if  he  can  be  said  to 
have  changed  it !  —  in  favour  of  ginger  beer.  Trimmer  kept 


I56  CHRISTOPHER 

to  tea.  There  was  nothing  like  tea,  she  said,  to  pick  you  up 
when  you  were  tired.  The  order  given,  it  was  they  who 
waited.  It  was  not  ungrateful,  however,  to  sit  still  after 
so  much  walking.  They  watched  laden  trays  going  to  other 
tables,  and  only  from  time  to  time  attempted  to  expedite 
matters  with  a  gentle  protest.  A  confidential  nod  from 
the  distance,  or  a  "Coming,  lady,  coming,"  or  a  "Yours 
next,  'm,  without  fail,"  was  all  that  such  patient  exhorta- 
tion brought  forth  for  a  period,  but  at  last  came  the  tray. 
The  waiter  apportioned  the  blame  to  the  "bufnt."  He  un- 
loaded, dealing  plates  like  cards,  and  about  as  rapidly  as  if 
delft  had  indeed  been  pasteboard.  He  had  given  his  order, 

—  so  and  so,  and  so  and  so,  one  coffee,  one  tea,  one  ginger, 

—  they  might  have  heard  him.      It  was  the  "bufnt." 
He  was  for  ever  hurrying  them  up  over  there.    Here  we 
were,   however,  and  he  might  venture  to  say,  asking 
pardon  for  the  presumption,  that  the  ginger  beer  was  for 
the  young  gentleman.    So  he  disarmed  them.    They  fell 
to. 

They  were  very  hungry.  Trimmer  had  threatenings  of  a 
headache  which  happily  the  tea  dispelled.  Christopher 
waited  for  the  froth  to  go  down  in  his  glass,  and  took  a 
long  drink. 

"Enjoying  yourself,  Christopher?" 

"Rather." 

Outside  people  passed  in  streams  continuous  as  the 
stream  of  millers  in  Christopher's  discarded  toy.  Mothers 
and  aunts  dragged  children  by  the  hand.  Children  dragged, 
or  dragged  at,  mothers  and  aunts.  An  occasional  man  car- 
ried a  baby. 

The  three  at  their  marble-topped  table  watched  as  they 
ate. 

"To  think  it'll  be  French  people  again  to-morrow," 
Trimmer  said  suddenly. 

It  was  what  Christopher  remembered  from  time  to  time : 
the  holidays  were  nearly  over.  It  was  what  his  mother 
could  not  forget :  she  had  left  John  Hemming  in  the  lurch. 


CHRISTOPHER  157 

Trimmer  fell  to  brooding;  Christopher,  even,  for  a  moment; 
his  mother  also. 

Most  deeply,  Anne.  She  ought  to  have  written.  She 
knew  that,  now.  It  had  seemed  impossible  to  write,  but 
she  ought  to  have  written.  Anne,  reproaching  herself,  did 
not  spare  herself.  She  spared  herself  the  less  for  knowing 
in  her  heart  of  hearts  that  she  could  not  wholly  be  acquitted 
of  a  desire,  however  blind,  to  evade  issues.  The  day  was 
momentous  as  all  last  things,  looks,  thoughts,  words.  If 
the  day  could  be  tided  over  .  .  .  !  It  was  true,  then,  and 
in  not  writing  to  John  Hemming,  she  had  given  him,  as 
the  abominable  phrase  went,  the  slip!  It  was  true.  It 
was  partly  true,  anyway.  She  had  even  been  relieved  the 
day  before  when  no  mention  had  been  made  of  the  morrow. 

"Ah,  well,"  said  Trimmer.  "We're  very  happy  over 
there,  when  all's  said  and  done." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  back  either,"  said  Christopher, 
answering  what  she  had  not  said. 

Ungrateful!  Had  he  forgotten  the  sea  and  the  quays 
and  the  gutters? 

"You  're  quite  right,  Trimmer.  We  're  very  happy  there. 
I  don't  think  we  could  have  been  happier  anywhere.  When 
I  think  of  bits  of  the  old  town  —  the  sheltered  feeling  .  .  . 
and  the  French  people.  Think  of  some  of  the  market- 
women.  Granny  Oxeter's  chicken-woman,  Christopher. 
'  Comme  du  sucre ! '  —  '  Tendre  comme  un  pigeon ! '  — 
'Pour  vous,  madame!'  The  persuasiveness!  And  Isabelle 
at  the  Fish-Market.  And  the  old  man  at  the  watchmaker's. 
Heaps  of  people.  All  friends.  It's  not  grateful." 

"There's  the  London  boat,"  admitted  Christopher; 
"  and  the  water  that  squirts  out  of  the  lock  gates." 

"And  Merridew's,  'm,  where  you  can  get  the  'Family 
'Erald.'  " 

"Everything,"  said  Anne. 

"I  spoke  without  thinking,"  said  Trimmer.  "It  was 
only  another  way  of  saying  how  much  I'd  enjoyed  the 
holiday."  . 


158  CHRISTOPHER 

"It's  not  over  yet,"  said  Christopher. 

It  was  n't,  nor  Christopher's  mother  out  of  the  wood. 
What  was  the  "slip"  (when  you  became  aware  of  it)  but 
a  thing  to  circumvent? 

One  of  the  stream  of  passers-by  detached  himself  sud- 
denly, for  two  persons,  from  the  rest.  Simultaneously 
Christopher  and  his  mother  saw  him.  Christopher  just 
saw  him.  To  Anne  it  was  as  it  used  to  be  with  Christopher, 
when,  waking  out  of  the  sleep,  he  saw  strange  faces  turn 
to  the  faces  he  knew  best.  She  had  been  looking  at  a  tall 
figure  in  the  passing  crowd  when  under  her  eyes  the  figure 
became  first  familiar,  and  then  (with  a  stab  at  her  heart) 
John  Hemming  himself. 

Christopher  sprang  from  his  chair.  If  she  had  had  any 
thought  of  restraining  him  she  could  not  have  done  so. 

Trimmer's  "Where's  he  off  to?"  answered  itself,  as 
Trimmer's  eyes  followed  him. 

Trimmer  gave  a  little  "Oh!" 

They  saw  Mr.  Hemming  stop,  stoop.  He  was  coming 
towards  them. 

"I  wondered,"  he  said,  just  as  he  had  said  before  when 
they  came  face  to  face  with  him  in  London,  —  "  I  wondered 
whether  I  should  meet  you." 

He  was  smiling.   Anne  smiled  too. 

"We  found  suddenly,"  she  said,  —  a  little  lamely  as  it 
seemed  to  her,  —  "that  we  had  forgotten  all  about  the 
Crystal  Palace." 

"And  all  about  me." 

He  nodded,  still  smiling,  to  Trimmer. 

"No."  Anne  knew  that  in  spite  of  herself  she  was  blush- 
ing like  a  girl.  "  I  did  n't  forget.  It  was  the  Christy  Min- 
strels over  again.  I  did  n't  want  to  bother  you." 

John  Hemming  said,  "H'm." 

"Truly." 

"Christopher  tells  me  the  pantomime  is  the  next  thing 
on  the  programme.  I  like  pantomimes,  too,  —  almost  as 
much  as  Christy  Minstrels." 


CHRISTOPHER  159 

"Then  come  with  us,"  said  Anne.  "Have  you  had 
lunch?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  There  was  n't  time.  Give  me  five  minutes  to  eat  a  sand- 
wich and  I'm  with  you.  Here,  waiter." 

He  caught  the  waiter's  eye. 

Nothing  was  wanted  now  to  complete  the  day's  ecstasy 
to  Christopher.  John  Hemming  made  short  work  of  a  few 
sandwiches  and  a  bottle  of  something  called  Pale  Ale.  He 
was  ready  to  start  off  again  almost  as  soon  as  the  others. 

The  giant  curtains  were  being  drawn  now  which  shut 
off  and  shut  in  the  space  allotted  to  the  theatre.  Through 
them,  when  you  were  within,  you  could  hear  as  across  a 
great  distance  some  of  the  sounds  you  had  left  outside. 
The  orchestra  came  in  and  began  to  tune  up.  People  were 
getting  to  their  places,  sidling,  curvetting,  begging  each 
other's  pardons.  The  mothers  and  aunts  were  busy  now. 
There  was  a  hum  and  a  buzz  of  talk,  from  which  scraps 
detached  themselves.  Presently  the  scraps  ceased  to 
detach  themselves,  and  for  Christopher  the  huge  mass  of 
the  talk  rose  and  fell  in  waves  like  the  sea  —  always  the 
sea.  Above  the  ebb  and  flow  of  it  he  could  always  hear  the 
cry  of  the  programme-sellers  —  Book  of  the  Words  and 
Songs  Sixpence. 

It  had  not  been  possible  to  get  four  seats  in  a  row. 
Christopher  and  Trimmer  sat  in  front  of  John  Hemming 
and  Anne,  but  not  directly  in  front.  Christopher  would 
have  wished  to  sit  with  John  Hemming,  but  it  was  thus 
that  matters  appeared  to  arrange  themselves  of  themselves, 
and  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  change  places.  John 
Hemming  could  talk  to  him,  however,  by  leaning  forward, 
and  did. 

Anne  knew  the  day  to  be  momentous.  Not  all  John 
Hemming's  good-humoured  light-hearted  ness  could  lull 
the  sense  of  something  impending.  Under  his  light-heart- 


160  CHRISTOPHER 

edness  she  fancied  she  detected  that  which  did  not  speak 
lightness  of  heart.  His  face,  with  its  rather  boyish  expres- 
sion, had  in  it  a  look  which  took  her  back  across  the  years 
to  another  day  which  also  in  its  turn  had  seemed  to  her 
momentous.  Had  she  really  thought  to  escape?  Now,  as 
he  sat  beside  her,  it  seemed  to  her  that  all  day  she  had 
known  that  he  would  come. 

"Were  you  surprised  to  see  me?"  she  heard  him  saying. 

"No.   I  thought  it  possible  that  you  might  come." 

This  she  said  almost  in  spite  of  herself. 

"It  was  quite  certain  that  I  should  come,"  he  said.  "But 
I  might  have  been  too  late,  or  I  might  have  missed  you." 

"Christopher  wanted  me  to  write  last  night,  but  — 
well,  I  have  some  mercy  on  my  friends,  you  see." 

"If  you  count  me  amongst  your  friends  I  ought  to  be 
satisfied." 

"Of  course  I  do." 

"  I  still  think  with  Christopher  that  I  might  have  been 
told.  Don't  you?" 

"  I  did  n't  just  not  write,"  said  Anne.  "  I  thought  about 
writing  and  decided  not  to.  But  I  would  have  written  if 
I  had  known.  I  'm  sorry  I  did  n't.  I  've  been  sorry  all 
day." 

He  had  been  a  little  sore,  then?  She  was  ready  to  make 
any  amends  —  short  of  such  amends  as  might  precipitate 
that  which  she  knew  to  be  inevitable,  but  which  she  so 
ardently  wished  to  avoid. 

"You  don't  know  how  much  it  mattered  to  me,"  he  said, 
breathing  hard. 

"Oh,  John,  did  it  matter?" 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"So  much  that  you  Ve  got  to  hear.  You  Ve  got  to  know 
how  much  it  mattered."  He  stooped  for  the  programme 
which  he  had  dropped.  " It's  —  it's  stronger  than  I  am," 
he  said. 

Neither  said  anything  after  that  for  some  time.  Anne 
could  not  have  spoken.  She  believed  that  he  could  not 


CHRISTOPHER  161 

either.  She  looked  at  her  hands  which  lay  on  her  muff, 
but  saw  not  her  hands,  but  his,  which  were  crushing  the 
programme.  She  knew  that  the  man  beside  her  was  in 
pain  almost  physical. 

The  lights  had  been  lowered.  The  overture,  which  had 
"brought  in"  all  Christopher's  tunes,  even  to  that  which 
had  admitted  him  to  brotherhood  of  the  great  greenhouse, 
was  over  and  the  curtain  was  rising. 

Demons  in  the  Bowels  of  the  Earth,  a  rocky  place  with 
emerald  lights,  were  deciding  the  subject  of  that  year's 
Pantomime.  Trimmer  beside  Christopher  was  kept  busy 
explaining  in  whispers.  There  were  no  demons  in  the  fairy 
story.  It  had  been  the  same  at  Drury  Lane.  Why?  Why? 
"Because  it's  a  pantomime"  was  not  a  quotation  then. 

"There  have  to  be  in  pantomimes?" 

"There  always  are." 

Anne  knew  exactly  what  was  passing.  Her  eyes,  raised 
now  from  her  lap,  were  on  the  stage,  but  she  could  still  see 
the  twisted  programme.  It  would  be  twisted  out  of  all 
legibleness.  No  smoothing  would  straighten  it  when  the 
hands  should  presently  release  it.  Oddly,  she  thought  she 
would  like  to  have  it.  It  became  for  her  a  sentient  thing. 
It  was  also  in  some  sort  the  symbol  of  the  man's  suffering. 
It  took  for  her,  by  reason  of  this,  the  pitiful  aspect  of  relics 
—  those  inanimate  things,  humble,  insignificant  maybe 
in  themselves,  but  hallowed  or  profaned  by  association. 
A  relic  in  the  making,  anyway !  It  was  certainly  no  longer 
a  reputable  Bill  of  the  Play. 


CHAPTER  XX 

ON  the  stage,  glittering,  or  comically  dingy,  things  hap- 
pened. The  scenes  succeeded  each  other  to  the  romp  and 
trip  and  swing  of  popular  airs.  Harps  led  you  from  cottage 
interiors  where  the  Fairy  Queen,  miraculously  appearing, 
sang  her  inappropriate  song  with  the  roulades,  to  fairy 
realms  where  the  Prima  Ballerina  tiptoed,  twisted,  and 
postured.  The  blare  of  silver  trumpets  heralded  the 
entrances  of  King  and  Court.  To  the  clash  of  cymbals  the 
Demon  was  shot  through  his  trap.  Anne  saw  and  heard 
automatically. 

She  tried  to  shut  herself  in  to  such  seeing  and  hearing, 
as  the  great  curtains  shut  in  the  theatre  itself  from  the  rest 
of  the  building.  By  keeping  quite  still,  her  eyes  on  the 
stage,  she  tried  to  imagine  herself  to  be  shut  off  from  obser- 
vation, as,  by  those  tin  shades,  in  shape  like  opera-glasses, 
which  are  lent  to  the  visitor  in  some  picture  galleries,  the 
eyes  are  shut  off  from  outer  distraction.  For  a  time  she 
remained  so,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left, 
but  always  at  the  stage  straight  before  her.  Then  with  a 
little  droop  of  her  shoulders  she  turned  towards  him. 

The  programme  was  still  in  his  hand,  but  it  was  no  longer 
being  tortured. 

" Don't  be  afraid,"  he  whispered  gently ;  " I'm  not  going 
to  say  anything  now.  I  lost  my  head  for  a  moment.  That 's 
over.  I  shan't  again." 

She  nodded  gratefully. 

"You'll  let  me  see  you  afterwards.  I  want  to  talk  to 
you." 

She  hesitated. 

"I  promise  to  behave  myself." 

She  laughed  under  her  breath.  If  it  could  but  be  kept 
to  laughter! 


CHRISTOPHER  163 

"Of  course  I  '11  see  you,"  she  said.  She  tried  to  add  some- 
thing and  got  as  far  as  "  But  I  ought  — ' '  when  he  stopped  her. 

"Don't  say  anything  more  now,"  he  said  quietly.  " Not 
now." 

"Still  — "  She  must  leave  herself  a  loophole,  she  must! 

"Please,"  he  said. 

More  of  the  Fairy  Queen.  More  of  the  Demon  King. 
More  of  the  Ballerina.  Christopher  liked  everything  except 
perhaps  the  Ballerina.  At  any  other  time  Anne  would 
have  been  enjoying  it  all  as  much  as  he.  He  turned  to  the 
two  behind  at  every  tune  he  recognised ;  included  them  in 
all  his  breathless  wonders. 

"Enjoying  it,  little  chap?" 

"Rather." 

So  was  Trimmer.  It  did  not,  however,  she  said,  beat  the 
pantomime  she  had  seen  at  Birmingham.  Christopher  did 
not  believe  her. 

The  First  Boy  won  his  way  to  the  heart  —  a  gallant  boy, 
all  bust  and  waist,  and  tapering  legs  nimble  to  the  horn- 
pipe, with  a  song  for  every  occasion,  and  an  eye  for  a  petti- 
coat. How  bravely  he  bore  himself!  The  Demon,  for  all 
his  malignity  and  sheath  of  shining  scales,  could  neVer  for 
long  get  the  better  of  him.  He  bore  a  charmed  life.  He 
was  here,  there,  and  everywhere,  championing  Beauty  in 
Distress,  cheering  his  old  mother,  chaffing  the  King,  fight- 
ing for  the  Right  and  the  Oppressed  and  Old  England.  No 
wonder  fairies  had  him  under  their  special  protection.  And 
Beauty,  his  sweetheart,  who  could  help  loving  her?  And 
the  poor  King  who  was  in  such  dire  financial  straits,  and 
the  Queen  with  the  bass  voice  who  could  not  get  away  from 
her  recollection  of  the  days  when  she  was  Young,  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  familiar  crew  .  .  .  Christopher  felt  that  his 
"Rather"  expressed  but  inadequately  the  degree  of  his 
enjoyment. 

To-morrow,  Boulogne  again;  the  next  day,  school. 
Horrible!  But  he  would  have  something  to  tell.  Besides, 
it  was  still  to-day.  So  Christopher. 


164  CHRISTOPHER 

To-morrow,  Boulogne  again.  And  before  that,  the  sea! 
So  Trimmer. 

To-morrow,  Boulogne  —  sanctuary.  If  it  were  not  too 
late!  —  Christopher's  mother. 

To-day,  to-day!  If  it  were  not  to  be  too  late,  indeed! 
So,  in  his  turn,  John  Hemming. 

The  pantomime  was  nearing  an  end.  The  transforma- 
tion scene  had  drawn  its  "Oh's"  of  amazed  delight  and 
was  over.  There  remained  the  harlequinade.  Anne  knew 
now  that  the  moment  was  coming  towards  which  the  whole 
day  had  in  reality  been  moving,  when  it  had  seemed  only 
to  be  moving  towards  the  pantomime.  That  was  how  such 
days  of  pleasuring  could  cheat  you!  Her  courage  began  to 
desert  her.  She  could  well  believe  that  she  did  in  very 
truth  look  tired  when  John  Hemming  decided  for  her  that 
she  must  not  sit  out  the  harlequinade.  She  nodded  to  his 
whisper.  He  leant  forward  and  whispered  to  Trimmer. 
Before  Anne  knew  what  was  happening,  she  found  herself 
outside  the  great  curtains.  She  felt  a  little  dizzy  and 
breathed  deeply. 

"  I  said  we  would  meet  them  in  half  an  hour,"  he  said. 

"Where?" 

"Under  the  Clock." 

Yet  not  the  remotest  thought  of  any  use  such  as  this 
for  a  meeting-place  had  been  present  to  Anne  when,  earlier 
in  the  day,  she  had  spoken  of  the  great  clock.  She  could 
have  laughed.  Christopher  had  called  her  attention  to  it 
and  she  had  said  the  obvious  thing  —  to  the  helping,  as  it 
was  to  appear,  of  this  forging  of  one  more  link  in  the  chain 
that  must  bind  her! 

"The  pantomime  will  be  over  in  less  than  that,"  she 
said  indistinctly.  She  wanted  to  gain  time. 

"Shall  we  walk,  or  sit  down  somewhere?" 

"Oh,  walk,"  she  said,  —  "walk."  She  wanted  space, 
movement.  "We've  been  sitting  so  long,"  she  added. 

She  looked  about  her  and  at  him. 


CHRISTOPHER  165 

From  the  enclosed  space  which  they  had  left  they  could 
still  hear  muffled  sounds  from  the  pantomime.  These 
mingled  with  the  universal  toy-sounds  that  made  the 
place  a  huge  Lowther  Arcade. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  Anne  said  presently  as  they 
walked.  But  she  knew. 

"It  is  n't  cold,"  he  said,  "and  there  will  be  air  and  the 
open  sky." 

It  was  nearly  dark  out  of  doors  —  quite  dark,  it  seemed, 
as  they  stepped  out  of  the  lighted  building,  but  gradually, 
as  their  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the  change,  what  had 
seemed  darkness  showed  itself  to  be  but  a  half-darkness, 
in  which  all  objects  were  clearly  visible.  The  terraces  were 
deserted. 

In  the  dusk  of  the  winter  evening  the  gardens  looked  a 
little  forlorn.  But  overhead  were  the  stars. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  say  what  I  have  to  say  to  you," 
John  Hemming  said  suddenly,  when  they  had  walked  a 
few  yards  along  the  gravel  in  silence.  "Under  whatever 
I  may  be  feeling,  you  see,  I  've  got  the  knowledge  of  what 
you  know  of  me,  and  of  what  you  must  think  of  me.  Well, 
think  the  worst  of  me  (and  your  worst  won't,  perhaps,  be 
bad  enough!),  but  just  somehow  know  that  in  spite  of 
everything  and  through  everything  I  Ve  always  loved  you. 
I  did  then,  years  ago,  and  I  do  now,  and  —  however  I  may 
have  lived  —  in  all  the  time  between  — " 

He  broke  off.  She  did  not  speak,  but  neither  did  she 
make  any  attempt  to  move  as  he  stood  before  her.  They 
had  both  stood  still  as  he  spoke. 

"You  don't  know  what  these  days  have  been  to  me.  I 
don't  think  I  knew,  myself,  till  I  found  this  morning  that 
I  might  be  going  to  lose  the  very  last  of  them.  If  I  had  n't 
met  you,  I  believe  I  should  have  spent  the  night  under  your 
window  in  Ebury  Street,  to  make  sure  that  you  did  n't 
escape  me  in  the  morning.  Oh,  I  can  laugh,  for  I  did  meet 
you,  but  it's  true.  What  are  you  going  to  say  to  me?  I  'm 
not  fit  to  come  to  you,  but  I  do  come  to  you." 


166  CHRISTOPHER 

"John,  it 'snot  that.  I  don't  judge  you.  I  never  have — " 

"Is  it  the  boy?" 

"Yes.  —  No.  —  I  don't  know." 

"You're  afraid  of  my  influence — " 

"  I  'm  not.  That 's  the  one  thing  that  I  'm  not  afraid  of." 
She  spoke  proudly.  "If  I  didn't  trust  you  .  .  ."  Her 
voice  shook.  She  turned  away. 

The  great  glass  house  behind  them  hummed  like  a  hive 
in  the  silence.  Out  here  in  the  grounds  they  seemed  the 
only  living  things. 

"I  shall  never  forget  that  to  you,  anyway,"  he  said  — 
so  low  that  she  hardly  heard  him. 

A  clock  struck  somewhere.  The  strokes  beat  upon  the 
stillness. 

'Anne,  knowing  what  you  know,  will  you  marry  me?" 

'  John,  it 's  not  what  I  know.  It 's  not  what  you  've  done. 


It 


s  not  you  at  all,  in  a  way." 


'Can  you  care  for  me?" 
'Yes." 

She  had  thought  of  him  too  much  to  hesitate  about  this. 
She  knew  that  she  cared  for  him,  or  could  care  for  him, 
well  enough  to  love  him  if  she  married  him.  She  did  not 
love  him  yet,  though  he  had  the  power  to  disturb  her. 
After  this  day,  all  the  same,  whether  she  married  him  or 
not,  she  believed  she  should  love  him. 

"What  is  it,  then?" 

"It"  was  so  many  things.  How  could  she  tell  him?  She 
had  thought  of  her  life  as  dedicated  to  the  dead  and  the 
living  Christophers.  "It"  was  herself,  then,  was  Christo- 
pher's father,  was  Christopher.  There  were  other  people, 
other  things,  involved  also.  Her  mother!  She  in  her  own 
person  would  understand.  As  Granny  Oxeter,  would  she? 
Laura  and  Catherine  —  would  they  ever?  As  Christopher's 
aunts?  As  her  sisters,  even?  Boulogne  was  involved.  The 
peace  of  the  sheltered  drawing-room,  the  fire,  the  lamp, 
the ' '  Cornhill  Magazine ! "  All  these  and — Mrs.  St.  Jemison ! 

"  I  must  speak  of  her,"  Anne  said  presently,  naming  her. 


CHRISTOPHER  167 

"  I  must  take  her  into  account.  Oh,  John  "  ("  it 's  all  dread- 
ful!" was  on  her  tongue,  but  this  time  was  not  spoken), 
"she  —  she  was  so  good  to  Christopher." 

"Anne,  I  should  n't  be  here  if  she  would  have  married 
me.  That's  all  I  can  say  in  extenuation  of  my  conduct. 
You  must  think  what  you  will  of  me  except  in  this  one 
thing." 

He  took  a  few  steps  away  from  her  and  came  back. 

"But  you're  not  doing  her  more  than  justice  in  saying 
that.  She  was  good  to  Christopher.  She  would  be  again. 
She  was  just  as  truly  expressing  herself  in  that  as  she  was 
in  leaving  me.  She  hurt  me  there.  I  don't  mind  that  she 
made  me  ridiculous.  That 's  a  small  thing.  She  .  .  .  hurt 
me.  But  she 's  full  of  kindliness  for  all  that  —  of  goodness 
even.  I  don't  understand ;  I  don't  pretend  to.  How  should 
I  when  she  doesn't,  herself?  Our  mistake  was  in  thinking 
that  we  loved  each  other — though  even  there  ...  In  a 
way  we  did." 

He  stopped  again.  She  could  see  that  he  was  profoundly 
moved. 

"Yes,  I  am  free,"  he  said,  after  a  pause. 

They  walked  a  little  further  and  again  came  to  a  stand- 
still. 

"You're  right  to  hesitate,"  he  said.  "  It's  a  poor  enough 
bargain  to  offer  you  —  damaged  goods,  smirched,  rejected 
even." 

"John,"  Anne  said,  —  "John!" 

"Isn't  it  true?" 

"It  is  n't."  She  drew  a  deep  breath.  "That's  what  is 
somehow  wonderful.  That's  what  I've  had  to  learn,  and 
have  learnt.  What  I  believe,  anyway." 

To  her  surprise  she  was  wondering  at  this  moment  how 
the  woman  she  wanted  to  pity,  and  pitied,  could  have 
found  it  in  her  heart  to  let  him  go !  Some  words  of  Trim- 
mer's came  back  to  her. 

He  saw  his  advantage,  but  he  refrained  from  following 
it  up.  He  did,  indeed,  wish  her  to  know  exactly  what  she 


168  CHRISTOPHER 

would  be  doing  if  she  married  him.  She  would  have  some- 
thing to  face.  She  would  need  all  her  courage. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  think  me  worse  than  I  am,  but 
you  must  on  no  account  think  me  better."  That  was  his 
attitude.  "I  come  to  you  without  one  plea,  but  not  as  a 
penitent.  I'm  sorry  enough.  It  is  n't  that  I 'm  not  sorry! 
But  if  it  were  all  to  come  over  again,  other  things  being 
equal,  I  've  no  doubt  that  I  should  do  what  I  've  done.  I 
can't  expect  you  to  understand.  You  would  n't  be  the 
woman  you  are  if  you  could.  It's  to  a  different  kind  that 
this  sort  of  understanding  is  given,  and  I  would  n't  have 
you  different."  He  did  not  say  all  this,  but  this  is  what  was 
in  his  mind,  and  in  some  mysterious  way  the  substance  of 
it  communicated  itself  to  hers.  It  was  the  answer  to  what 
had  exercised  her  at  Herrickswood  when  she  had  asked 
herself  whether,  if  he  had  not  been  "dead,"  he  could  be 
said  to  be  "alive  again."  She  knew  that  in  the  conven- 
tional sense  he  was  not  in  sackcloth  or  ashes.  But  she 
knew  that  she  could  trust  him. 

Yet  if  he  asked  less  of  her  than  he  thought,  he  also  asked 
of  her  more  than  he  would  ever  guess.  Perhaps  the  last 
thing  that  such  a  woman  as  Anne  surrenders  is  her  belief 
that  though  there  be  in  heaven  neither  marriage  nor  giving 
in  marriage,  the  marriage  tie  itself  must  somehow  pass  the 
gate  and  grave  of  death.  "It"  was  no  longer  herself,  no 
longer  Christopher,  maybe,  or  even  Mrs.  St.  Jemison. 

She  looked  at  him,  wondering  whether  it  would  avail 
anything  to  speak.  Of  the  two  of  them,  was  it  she  who  was 
not  free? 

A  few  people  besides  themselves  were  in  the  grounds 
now.  Voices  sounded  near  the  entrances  to  the  building. 
Couples  made  for  the  shelter  of  the  paths,  or  emerged  sud- 
denly out  of  the  darknesses.  A  woman's  voice  somewhere 
at  hand  said  fatuously,  "This  is  the  grounds,"  I  suppose; 
and  a  man's,  "Ah,  I  daresay  it  would  be,  by  day."  A  child 
chased  another  into  the  shadow  of  some  bushes,  and  a 
guardian's  voice  called,  "Don't  you  get  lost  now.  If  you 


CHRISTOPHER  169 

do,  I  shall  take  you  both  home  straightaway."  Was  there, 
or  did  she  imagine  it,  a  louder  humming  in  the  great  glass 
house?  The  pantomime  was  over. 

"Anne,"  he  said  gently. 

"  It's  because  I  could  care  for  you,"  she  said  desperately 
at  last. 

"Because  .  .  .  ?" 

She  nodded. 

"Because  — "  he  said  again.  "Because!  But  if  you  can 
care  for  me  .  .  .  !  Why,"  he  stood  before  her.  "Why, 
that's  everything.  More  than  I  dared  to  think  possible. 
How  can  that  stand  in  the  way?" 

She  must  have  known  herself  yielding,  for  she  could  not 
tell  him.  She  could  not  speak  of  Christopher's  father  and 
of  what  faiths  and  loyalties  she  would  have  to  renounce  — 
would  be  renouncing  —  if  she  listened.  He  was  dead, 
Christopher's  father;  had  not  watched,  was  not  waiting! 
All  her  life,  then,  since  he  died  was  to  be  made  nothing. 
All  that  she  had  clung  to,  to  become  untrue,  to  be  as 
if  it  had  never  been.  But  these  things  could  not  be  put 
into  words  which  are  irrevocable.  She  knew  the  power  of 
words.  Already  by  a  putting  into  words  something  had 
been  crystallised  that  day.  No,  she  could  not  tell  him. 

"  How  can  it?  "  he  repeated.  "  It  can't,  because  it  is  what 
should  bring  us  together.  Oh,  we  must  come  together  in 
the  end.  It  can't  be  for  nothing  that  I  love  you  as  I  do. 
I  don't  even  think  it  was  for  nothing  that  there  was  a  nail 
lying  about  for  Christopher  to  fall  on  ..." 

He  came  nearer  to  her. 

"Anne." 

,  He  was  so  near  to  her,  but  he  did  not  touch  her  —  so 
near  that  she  could  hear  his  quickened  breathing. 

"All  my  life,  anyway,  is  in  your  hands,"  he  said.  It 
was  a  whisper. 

She  was  drowning.  In  that  moment,  as  the  drowning  are 
said  to  do,  she  ran  through  her  life  in  vivid  and  impas- 
sioned review,  dwelling  longest  on  that  chapter  in  it  which 


170  CHRISTOPHER 

had  been  the  beginning  of  the  First  Chapter  of  Christo- 
pher's. She  saw  again  the  golden  path  upon  the  waters 
leading  to  or  from  the  golden  city ;  heard  her  own  cry  when 
out  of  the  exceeding  sadness  of  her  heart  she  had  cried  to 
what  as  yet  was  not;  lived  again  through  her  terror,  her 
anguish,  her  lassitude,  to  the  moment  of  rapture  which 
had  given  a  man-child  into  her  waiting  arms.  Oh,  Christo- 
pher, father  of  Christopher,  Christopher,  Christopher! 

If  in  her  drowning,  which  was  her  yielding,  she  could 
have  spoken,  it  must  have  been  to  say  "No"  to  this  other; 
to  say  " No,  lest  I  love  you  —  No,  though  I  love  you!  No. 
No.  No." 

But  she  could  not  speak,  and  swaying  swayed  towards 
him. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

So  Christopher's  nail  —  the  nail  which  had  stabbed  him 
—  was  the  first  in  the  coffin  of  poor  old  Boulogne.  Haste 
to  the  wedding?  Haste  rather  to  the  burial !  No  real  haste, 
of  course,  for  nearly  two  years  were  to  pass  before  his 
mother  changed  her  name.  A  nail  to  the  coffin,  for  all  that. 
Regrets?  None  from  Christopher,  straining  forward. 
None  for  the  green  shuttered  house?  the  market?  the 
Church  of  St.  Nicolas?  Merridew's,  where  "  Cornhill  "  and 
"  Punch  "  were  bought,  and  the  Christmas  cards  in  their  hour 
(robins  and  snow  in  those  days),  and  valentines  (hearts, 
arrows,  Cupids  on  scented  lace  paper)  in  theirs?  None  for 
the  Grande  Rue  with  Gregory's  and  Howe's  and  the  Der- 
vaux?  the  Fete  Dieu,  when  the  procession  wound  up  to 
the  Cathedral  and  the  eager  women  held  out  their  babies 
for  blessing?  For  the  Fair  with  the  Four-sou  Stall  —  Voyez 
la  vente.  Tout  a  quat'  sous.  Au  choix.  Choisissez!  —  the 
merry-go-rounds,  the  Tombolas,  the  shows?  For  the  Car- 
nival? For  Pont  de  Briques,  of  the  occasional  drives,  the 
Colonne  and  the  Vallee,  of  walks?  For  the  galantine  shop 
with  the  sausages  in  "silver"  paper?  For  the  Petits  Arbres, 
where  you  kicked  up  the  leaves  as  you  waded  through 
them  ankle-deep,  and  where,  in  the  interstices  of  the  bark 
of  the  trees,  the  mysterious  chrysalises  were  to  be  found 
which  tweaked  their  tails  when  you  touched  them?  For 
the  Ramparts?  —  none  for  the  Ramparts?  For  the  splash- 
ing "fountains,"  then?  the  Sands? — surely  for  the  Sands? 
Well,  then,  for  the  pier?  the  Port?  the  Bird-shop?  Cap6- 
cure,  perhaps?  the  clang  of  the  wooden  shoon  —  the 
clip-clap  of  the  wooden  heels  as  the  woollen  heels  above 
them  showed  rounded  and  dark  against  the  lamb's-wool 
lining?  —  a  sound  to  go  with  you  through  life!  For  the 


172  CHRISTOPHER 

cries,  then?  —  Surely  a  regret  for  the  cries:  the  cry  of  the 
coal,  of  the  shrimp,  of  the  mackerel?  For  Blancpignon, 
where  Christopher  learned  to  beat  his  mother  at  skating? 
For  M.  Delplanque's,  where  he  learned  to  dance?  For  fried 
potatoes  with  a  shake  of  salt?  For  the  lock  gates  deeply  sep- 
arating the  waters  of  the  Liane  from  the  waters  of  the 
harbour?  The  artificial  rocks  in  the  Aquarium?  occasional 
fireworks  in  theTintelleries?  an  occasional  circus  with  Eng- 
lish clowns?  For  M.  Albrecht,  the  German  book-binder, 
where  "Cornhill"  and  the  "Sunday-at-Home"  and  the 
"  Romans  Populaires  "  were  made  up  into  volumes  (half- 
calf,  marbled  edges)  ?  The  watchmaker's,  where  there  was 
the  tie-pin  which  was  a  fly  in  effigy  upon  an  imitated  lump 
of  sugar  ?  —  (Wonderful !)  For  Lambert's,  where  you  bought 
sucre  de  pomme  and  sucre  d'orge  and  could  not  afford  to 
buy  nougat?  M.  Abraham's,  the  chemist's  (&  propos!), 
where  your  rare  powders  were  concocted?  For  the  stamped 
affiches  on  the  walls  and  hoardings?  the  herring  barrels  by 
the  boats?  the  men  with  sacks  corner- wise  over  their  heads, 
who  carried  salt  that  looked  like  coffee-sugar ;  the  men  mend- 
ing the  road;  the  half-naked  men  taking  in  logs  at  the 
baker's?  —  at  least  for  the  half-naked  men  at  the  baker's? 
(Come  along,  Master  Christopher!)  For  the  many  smells; 
the  London  boat  with  the  black  funnels  and  the  Folkestone 
with  the  white  and  black?  Surely,  surely,  for  the  sea  it- 
self and  the  quays  and  the  gutters? 

None  at  the  time,  with  England  ahead  of  you.    None. 

Christopher  was  not  consciously  heartless  or  ungrateful. 
He  was  young,  that  was  all,  and  looking  forward. 

The  parting  in  any  case  was  not  yet.  He  did  not  even 
know  for  a  long  time  that  there  was  to  be  any  parting  at 
all,  or  any  change  in  his  life.  This  had  slipped  back  at  once 
into  the  old  grooves.  His  recent  experiences  at  Herricks- 
wood  and  in  London  were,  as  we  may  suppose,  possessions, 
indeed.  He  had  something  to  tell  to  his  grandmother, 
his  aunts,  the  servants,  and  his  schoolfellows. 

Had  he  any  inkling  that  changes  were  looming?  Were 


CHRISTOPHER  173 

there  any  signs  by  which  he  might  have  guessed?  His 
mother  got  more  letters  and  wrote  more;  that  he  did  ob- 
serve, —  nothing  much  else.  He  might  have  noticed  some- 
thing of  restraint  in  her  relations  with  her  sisters  for  a  little 
while  after  the  return  from  England,  but  naturally  he  did 
not.  Full  of  their  questionings  and  hearings  and  relatings, 
they  did  not  either.  It  was  his  mother,  actively  dreading 
the  telling,  who  could  have  told  of  restraint!  For  her  there 
were  days  when  restraint  shrieked  aloud.  She  had  told 
no  one?  No  one  as  yet.  There  was  no  hurry,  indeed,  for 
John  Hemming,  behaving  beautifully,  was  not  coming  to 
Boulogne,  was  content  to  remain  at  the  "other  end"  of  a 
daily  letter.  Signs?  Not  for  Christopher.  Not  for  the 
busy  aunts.  Two  persons  only  may  have  guessed !  Mrs. 
Oxeter,  though  Anne,  with  the  knowledge  that  she  was 
ready  to  tell  her  at  any  moment,  felt  no  restraint  in  her 
relations  with  her ;  Trimmer,  who  brought  in  the  daily  letter. 
These  she  would  have  told  without  further  or  any  ado, 
if  it  had  not  been  for  Christopher's  aunts.  She  was  not 
ready  yet  to  tell  them.  In  time,  perhaps,  she  would  be. 
Meanwhile  she  dwelt  over  a  volcano. 

Christopher,  notably  older  for  his  widened  outlook, 
invited  comment. 

"He's  grown  inches,"  his  Aunt  Laura  declared, — 
"positively  inches." 

"He  grows  more  and  more  like  his  father,"  his  Aunt 
Catherine. 

Anne  winced.  Then  smiled.  She  must  accustom  herself 
to  new  conditions.  She  knew  that  the  daily  letter  made  her 
happy. 

How  to  tell  them!  She  made  tentative  efforts,  only  to 
find  that  they  had  been  a  little  shocked  as  it  was.  At  the 
first  mention  of  John  Hemming  they  confessed  to  having 
been  surprised  that  Mrs.  Herrick  should  have  asked  him  to 
Herrickswood  to  meet  their  sister  and  her  son. 

"It  was  n't  as  if  .  .  .  "  they  said  —  which  was  the  sort 
of  thing  they  always  did  say. 


I74  CHRISTOPHER 

"Oh,  well  .  .  ."  Anne  said,  also  without  finishing. 

"My  dear,  after  all  that  happened  here,"  Laura  said, 
filling  in  " — Boulogne,  you  know,  where  we  all  were! 
What  we  saw  ourselves  —  walking  with  her  as  he  did  in 
the  open  street !  —  and  what  every  one  said.  Even  if  it 
were  at  an  end  .  .  ." 

"That  was  it,"  said  Anne;  "it  was  all  at  an  end  —  over 
and  done  with." 

"Over,  but  hardly  done  with,"  said  Catherine,  "while 
everybody  was  talking.  We  did  n't  of  course  say  anything 
when  you  wrote,  but  as  you  speak  of  it,  it  did  strike  us  as 
regrettably  lax.  People  in  these  cases  —  oh,  yes,  the  gentle- 
man, to  say  nothing  of  the  lady  —  use  n't  to  be  counte- 
nanced at  all.  It  was  not  quite  right  of  Mrs.  Herrick. 
You,  her  guest,  her  son's  widow!  And  then  Christopher, 
a  young  boy!" 

"If  Christopher  never  gets  more  harm  from  any  one 
else — "  his  mother  permitted  herself  to  say,  but  again 
she  did  not  finish  her  sentence.  She  must  not  allow  herself 
to  be  drawn  into  an  argument  —  must  keep  her  arguments, 
indeed,  for  the  day  when  she  must  plead  her  lover's  cause 
and  her  own  —  fight  it,  if  need  be. 

But  presently  Christopher  did  become  aware  of  something 
— something  happening  or  impending.  This  dated  from  the 
day  when  Amelie,  coming  in  from  some  shopping,  announced 
that  M.  Saint- Roch,  the  owner  of  the  green-shuttered 
house,  who  had  watched  over  his  property  from  the  end 
of  the  street,  was  dead. 

"  I  wonder  whether  this  will  make  any  difference,"  Chris- 
topher's mother  said,  and  became  thoughtful. 

"About  what?"  said  Christopher.  He  was  in  truth 
older  than  his  years. 

"The  house,"  said  his  mother,  but  did  not  explain. 

Well,  it  was  to  make  some  difference,  it  seemed,  and  it 
was  not  long  before  Anne  heard  from  her  late  landlord's 
executors.  We  need  not  trouble  ourselves  with  the  busi- 
ness, which  was  complicated.  All  that  concerns  us,  since  all 


CHRISTOPHER  175 

that  concerned  Christopher's  mother,  is  that  Anne  Her- 
rick  had  to  make  up  her  mind  whether  she  would  take 
the  house  on  for  a  term  of  years  or  give  it  up  at  the  end 
of  her  lease.  Anne  would  give  it  up  —  but  it  meant  that 
the  telling  was  precipitated.  She  went  round  to  her  mother's 
with  a  beating  heart. 

Christopher,  uninformed  as  yet  of  what  the  visit  to  Eng- 
land had  brought  forth,  —  fruit  of  the  nail,  in  effect!  — 
was  reminded  now  of  the  days  of  Poor  Mr.  Aggot  and  the 
Absconding  Partner;  of  the  days  of  the  family  consulta- 
tions from  which  he  was  excluded ;  even  of  the  Red  Eyes. 
There  were  mysterious  family  consultations  now;  conver- 
sations which  were  broken  off  at  his  entrance;  significant 
allusions  to  Goodness-knows-what  in  his  presence.  Some- 
thing was  exercising  everybody.  His  mother  could  not 
tell  him  yet,  dear.  Trimmer  knew,  he  was  quite  sure,  but 
shook  her  head.  His  grandmother  was  pretty  much  as  usual. 
His  Aunt  Laura  was  n't,  but  had  a  tendency  to  look  at  him 
with  melancholy  solicitude,  rousing  herself  from  time  to 
time  to  smile  at  him,  with  forced  cheerfulness,  as  one  who 
should  say,  We  must  hope  for  the  Best.  She  kissed  him 
oftener  even  than  usual,  and  showed  an  inclination  (frus- 
trated, for  the  most  part,  let  us  add!)  to  kiss  him  even 
oftener  than  that.  His  Aunt  Catherine  he  did  not  see  at 
all.  Presently  he  gathered  that  there  was  a  temporary 
estrangement  between  his  gentle  mother  and  this  gentle 
aunt,  who,  it  appeared,  had  Said  more  than  she  Meant. 

What  did  it  all  mean? 

"  I  can't  bear  to  be  disapproved  of,"  he  heard  his  mother 
say  one  day. 

"Catherine  does  n't  quite  understand,"  his  grandmother 
answered.  "You  must  make  allowances." 

Christopher  had  come  in  from  school,  and  though  he  had 
entered  the  room  in  the  ordinary  way,  so  absorbed  were 
they  that  they  had  not  observed  him. 

" I  do,"  his  mother  said.  "I  want  to.  I  do.  Imakeevery 
allowance.  I  knew  —  that  was  why  I  shrank  so  from  telling 


176  CHRISTOPHER 

her.  I  felt  she  would  n't  be  able  to  see.  But  when  she  said 
what  she  did  say  — " 

Christopher  knew  he  ought  to  reveal  himself.  Well, 
there  he  was,  if  they  chose  to  look. 

"You  must  n't  mind  her.  She  spoke  without  thinking 
—  in  the  heat  of  the  moment." 

"Mother,  you  don't  think  — " 

"No,  darling,  I  don't.  You  are  doing  perfectly  right. 
Don't  forget  what  I  said  to  you  months  ago." 

"  I  don't.   If  it  had  n't  been  for  that,  indeed  — " 

No  one  ever  seemed  to  finish  a  sentence  in  these  mysteri- 
ous discussions. 

"And  for  what  Mrs.  Herrick  said,  too,"  Christopher's 
mother  added. 

"I  must  have  misjudged  that  woman,"  Granny  Oxe- 
ter  said,  by  the  way. 

"We  all  did,"  Anne  said  gratefully.  "She's  not  frighten- 
ing at  all.  She 's  most  lovable.  Really  if  she  could  approve, 
and  she  would,  I  do  think  that  Laura  and  Catherine  — 
Laura  hasn't  said  much.  But  Catherine  .  .  .  Oh, 
Christopher,  is  that  you?  How  quietly  you  came  in.  I 
did  n't  hear  you." 

He  had  not  really  come  in  quietly. 

It  was  his  Aunt  Laura's  "Oh,  Christopher,  I  didn't 
see  you,"  of  the  poor  Mr.  Aggot  days  over  again! 

Afterwards  the  days  were  seen  to  have  been  even  more 
like  those  than  he  had  suspected,  when  they  also  were 
found  to  have  portended  a  move.  At  the  time,  however, 
what  they  portended  he  could  not  imagine.  Nothing 
unpleasant,  he  was  sure,  for,  though  there  was  some  fer- 
ment, it  was  plain  to  see  that  his  mother  was  not  really 
unhappy ;  and  Trimmer  was  in  excellent  spirits. 

His  Aunt  Laura,  he  presently  gathered,  was  coming 
round  —  whatever  that  might  mean;  his  Aunt  Catherine 
would  in  time. 

It  was  his  Aunt  Catherine,  if  he  had  known  it,  who  on 
this  occasion  supplied  most  of  the  Red  Eyes,  though  his 


CHRISTOPHER  177 

mother,  in  spite  of  not  being  really  unhappy,  cried  some- 
times, too.  She  could  not  bear  being  at  variance  with 
any  one. 

So  time  went  on  —  that  time  which  was  said  to  be  neces- 
sary to  the  "  coming  round  "  of  his  aunt.  She  did  not  come 
to  the  Rue  Gil  Bias,  nor  appear  in  the  Place  Moliere  when 
Christopher's  mother  took  him  there  to  tea.  We  may 
guess,  as  Christopher  could  not,  but  as  his  mother  could 
and  did  (which  was  why  she  cried) ,  what  these  absen tings 
of  herself  meant  to  the  poor  lady  who  had  said  too  much. 

Boulogne  threw  off  winter  and  clothed  itself  in  the  greens 
of  spring.  The  trees  in  the  Petits  Arbres  and  on  the  Es- 
planade and  in  the  gardens  under  the  Ramparts  came  to 
life  after  their  long  sleep.  Flowers  filled  the  market  once 
more,  and  birds  —  mostly  in  cages,  it  is  true  —  sang  their 
songs  of  joy  and  love.  It  was  again  the  time  of  young  things. 

Anne  looked  younger  than  ever  that  year.  Catherine 
saw  from  behind  curtains  and  through  remorseful  tears, 
but  wrould  not  herself  be  seen.  Anne  made  overtures  of 
peace,  sent  messages,  wrote.  Catherine  held  out.  Mystified 
Christopher  could  not  understand.  At  this  time  he  seemed 
only  to  have  a  grandmother  and  one  aunt. 

Then  on  a  day  he  met  her  outside  the  post-office  in  the 
Rue  des  Vieillards,  whither  he  had  been  sent  on  an  errand 
for  stamps. 

He  said,  "Is  that  you,  Aunt  Catherine?"  and,  in  the 
"open  street,"  as  she  would  have  said,  she  burst  into  tears. 

"Oh,  Christopher,"  she  said,  weeping  over  him.  "Oh, 
my  poor  lost  lamb." 

His  aunts  often  called  him  Lambs  and  things,  so  he  passed 
over  that,  but  he  had  to  point  out  that  he  was  n't  lost. 
Used  long  since  to  going  about  by  himself,  he  could  not 
admit  to  being  lost  when  he  was  n't. 

"And  you  mustn't  be,"  sobbed  the  poor  lady.  "You 
mustn't  be.  That's  all  that  I  wanted  to  prevent.  Oh, 
Christopher." 

"Why  are  you  crying,  Aunt  Catherine?" 


178  CHRISTOPHER 

"  I  have  n't  seen  you  for  weeks"  said  his  aunt. 

"  Because  you  hide  when  we  go  to  see  Granny.  You  run 
out  of  the  room.  I  know,  because  there  was  a  chair  that 
was  quite  warm  last  time  we  went.  Why  don't  you  come 
and  see  mother?" 

"Oh,  why!"  said  his  Aunt  Catherine.  "I've  offended 
her,  my  angel.  My  foolish  tongue  said  things.  You  would 
n't  understand.  I  did  n't  mean  them  —  at  least,  I  did 
mean  them  because  I  felt  it  my  duty.  That's  why,  but  I 
suppose  I  see  that  I  should  n't  have  said  them." 

"Well,"  said  Christopher,  drawing  on  his  own  experience, 
"if  you  say  you're  sorry  she  always  forgives  you." 

"But,  good  gracious  — "  began  his  aunt,  and,  like  every- 
body else,  she  did  not  finish,  or  finished  where  she  be- 
gan. 

"How  are  you  getting  on  with  your  lessons?"  she  asked 
him  presently.  "  Here 's  half-a-franc  for  you,  to  buy  sweets 
—  only  don't  make  yourself  ill.  There,  kiss  me.  I  'm  glad 
to  have  seen  you." 

She  turned  blindly  into  the  post-office,  and  he  scampered 
home. 

"She  was  blubbing,"  he  told  his  mother. 

His  mother  went  to  the  Place  Moliere  that  afternoon, 
but  only  again  to  be  met  with  what  Christopher  called  a 
warm  chair. 

"  How  long  is  this  to  go  on?  "  she  asked  his  grandmother 
miserably. 

It  was  not  the  next  day,  nor  the  next,  nor  the  next,  but 
the  day  after  that,  that  a  meek  ring  sounded  on  the  hall- 
door  bell  of  the  green-shuttered  house. 

"Mamzelle  Katrine,  madame,"  announced  Celestine. 

The  two  ladies  waited  till  the  door  had  closed  behind 
her,  and  threw  themselves  into  each  other's  arms.  They 
wept  luxuriously,  revelling  in  an  orgy  of  tears. 

"Marry  any  one  you  like.  Marry  every  one.  Marry 
every  day.  Only  never,  never,  never  again  let  me  lose  sight 
of  you  or  of  Christopher." 


CHRISTOPHER  179 

It  was  complete  surrender.  The  good  creature  could  not 
say  enough. 

"  I  believe  mamma's  really  glad  about  it,"  she  squeaked. 
"Really,  I  mean;  not  just  wanting  to  be.  And  Laura  — 
oh,  Laura  will  soon  come  round." 

Anne  thought  that  Laura  had,  but  she  did  not  say  so. 

"You'll  meet  him,  Catherine?" 

Catherine  nodded. 

"Receive  him  ?  Receive  him,  Catherine?  —  And  me?" 

"What  an  ogre  you  must  think  me." 

"No.  What  you  have  felt  was  quite  natural.  But  — 
there  are  'buts.'  You  must  believe  that,  dear.  I  can't 
explain.  You  must  just  believe  it  from  me  as  I  have  been 
content  to  believe  it  from  him." 

"Of  course,"  said  Catherine  Oxeter.   "Of  course." 

She  was  ready  to  believe  anything  now,  to  accept  any- 
thing. It  became  evident  that  she  did  not  repent  her  by 
halves.  As  she  had  opposed,  so  now  she  was  eager  to  wel- 
come. 

"They  are  said  to  make  the  best  husbands,"  she  said, 
wiping  her  eyes. 

Anne  smiled. 

"But  he  is  n't  a  Reformed  Rake,  Catherine." 

"No,  no,"  agreed  Catherine  hurriedly.  "Reformed,  but 
not  a  rake." 

Anne  left  it  at  that.  She  knew !  Unnecessary,  perhaps, 
to  make  exact  distinctions  or  exact  definitions.  If  he  was 
not  "reformed"  in  one  sense,  he  was  in  another.  And  in 
no  sense  was  he  a  rake. 

"  I  meant  I  was  sure  he  would  make  a  good  husband," 
said  Catherine. 

Anne  knew  that  he  would,  and  said  so. 

Catherine  pressed  her  hand. 

"And  a  good  father,"  Anne  added.  She  pressed  Cather- 
ine's. "If  I  hadn't  known  that  .  .  .  But  I  do.  That's 
why.  It's  all  in  that.  Nothing  else  matters." 

So  it  came  that  Christopher  found  his  lost  aunt  at  tea 


i8o  CHRISTOPHER 

that  day  in  the  Rue  Gil  Bias  when  he  came  home  from 
school.  It  was  of  course  she  who  had  been  lost,  and  not  he. 
She  kissed  him  in  quite  a  different  way  from  last  time.  It 
was  a  different  sort  of  kiss  altogether,  and  quite  different, 
in  turn,  from  the  recent  kisses  of  his  Aunt  Laura.  He  liked 
it  much  better  —  in  so  far  as  he  could  be  said  to  like  kisses 
at  all  (which,  in  fact,  he  only  tolerated).  Normal  relations, 
he  realised,  had  been  established.  But  what,  as  before,  did 
it  all  mean? 

He  was  not  to  know  yet. 

Time  went  on.  All  the  usual  things  happened  with  just 
something  of  unusualness  behind  them.  There  were  no 
longer  any  red  eyes.  His  mother  sang  about  the  house; 
caught  herself  singing  sometimes,  laughed,  blushed,  —  and 
was  singing  again  before  five  minutes  were  over.  She 
bought  some  new  hats,  which  met  with  Christopher's 
unqualified  approval.  They  were  different,  somehow,  from 
the  hats  she  generally  wore.  By  degrees  her  Aunt  Laura 
left  off  looking  at  him  commiseratingly  or  with  forced 
cheerfulness.  But  the  consultations  and  talkifications  did 
not  cease. 

Something  of  unusualness  somewhere ! 

It  was  presently  summer.  The  town  prepared  itself  for 
the  yearly  influx  of  visitors  and  announced  "garnished" 
apartments  everywhere.  The  hotels  bustled,  threw  them- 
selves open,  re-staffed,  and  began  to  fill  up.  Then  strangers 
were  seen  in  the  streets:  strange  sauntering  family  parties; 
Monsieur,  Madame,  and  Bebe;  strange  figures  from  the 
provinces;  odd  corpulent  men,  odd  corpulent  women, 
every  example  of  unabashed  corpulence.  The  English 
arrived,  —  parents,  governesses,  nurses,  children,  healthy- 
looking  girls,  athletic  young  men;  a  sprinkling  of  the 
rowdy.  A  few  Germans.  Bathing  began  in  earnest.  On 
the  sands  long-suffering  horses  drew  creaking  and  jolting 
machines  up  or  down  to  deep  guttural  urgings,  the  jingling 
of  harness,  and  the  cracking  of  whips.  A  crowd  with  bun- 


CHRISTOPHER  181 

dies  of  bathing-tackle  waited  its  turn  round  a  man  shout- 
ing numbers  from  a  chair.  From  time  to  time  as  the  tide 
rose,  the  chair  would  be  moved  higher  up  the  beach,  the 
waiting  crowd  following.  In  the  sea,  strange  sights:  cor- 
pulence, outlined  here,  striped,  made  nakeder  than  naked, 
and  still  good-humouredly,  and  even  beautifully,  una- 
bashed ! 

Daily  now  the  boats  were  crowded.  From  the  pier,  you 
might  read  by  the  cones  on  the  incoming  vessel  the  number 
of  the  passengers,  and  then  racing  her  to  the  harbour,  you 
might  see  the  passengers  land.  England  bound  for  the 
Continent  generally  was  emptying  itself  into  France 
again.  No  such  numbers  had  been  known  since  before  the 
War. 

The  bales  of  goods  on  the  quay  near  the  London  boat 
were  always  hot  now  to  the  touch,  as  Christopher  played 
amongst  them  in  the  sun.  So  were  the  rails  of  the  gang- 
ways through  which  he  ran,  or  on  which  he  see-sawed. 
Hot  the  asphalt  of  the  terrace  behind  the  Etablissement. 
Hot  everything  on  which  you  laid  your  hand.  It  was  pres- 
ently full  summer. 

Came  and  went  the  holidays,  the  F£te  Dieu,  the  Fair. 
A  year  now  since  Mrs.  St.  Jemison,  John  Hemming,  and 
the  Nail.  Came  the  autumn.  By  then  the  coffin  which  was 
to  hold  poor  old  Boulogne  was  well  on  in  the  making. 
Came  the  day  when  he  was  told.  He  felt  as  if  he  had 
known  all  along!  Regrets? 

It  was  hurrah  for  change,  hurrah  for  the  future,  hurrah 
(or  John  Hemming  and  England. 


THE   SECOND    BOOK  OF 
CHRISTOPHER 


BOOK  THE  SECOND 
CHAPTER  I 

CHRISTOPHER,  some  dozen  years  later,  entered  upon  the 
second  period  of  his  life,  upon  the  day  when  he  saw  in  the 
flesh  some  one  whose  name,  when  at  length  he  learned  it, 
sent  his  mind  scurrying  back  across  the  years,  with  their 
changes  and  chances,  to  the  strange  night  when  he  had 
first  heard  it.  So  much  had  happened  since  then  —  all  his 
school-days  (of  which,  as  we  go),  most  of  his  time  at  Ox- 
ford. Then  he  had  been  a  boy  with  his  life  before  him; 
now  he  was  a  man,  if  still  a  very  boy  for  all  that,  with  — 
well,  still  it  seemed,  his  life  before  him. 

In  after  years  Christopher,  looking  back,  was  apt  to 
date  changes  and  change  itself  from  the  days  of  his  mother's 
marriage.  In  reality,  of  course,  there  had  never  been  any- 
thing else.  Had  not  his  circumstances  been  in  process  of 
changing  from  the  day  of  his  birth?  Had  not  he  himself, 
his  mother,  his  grandmother,  his  aunts,  Trimmer,  even,  — 
all  his  little  world,  in  common  with  the  big  one  of  which  its 
component  parts  were  part?  The  more  these  riad  changed, 
it  is  true,  the  more  they  had  remained  the  same  thing  — 
especially,  as  he  sometimes  thought,  Trimmer.  Changes 
and  change  none  the  less.  The  law  was  immutable. 

The  change  from  the  green-shuttered  house  at  Boulogne 
to  the  house  (at  Datchet)  which  belonged  to  his  stepfather 
was  assuredly  a  good  starting-point  for  change.  There- 
after, anyway,  the  changes  came  rapidly  enough.  When 
people  were  singing  "Tommy,  make  Room  for  your 
Uncle,"  for  "Champagne  Charlie,"  and  "Spring,  Spring, 
Beautiful  Spring,"  for  "Pretty  Polly  Perkins  of  Padding- 
ton  Green,"  —  belated  survivals  from  very  much  earlier 


186  CHRISTOPHER 

days,  —  Christopher,  gaining  new  relations,  was  losing  old 
ones.  Granny  Oxeter  was  the  first  to  receive  her  summons. 
She  died  quite  happily,  and  as  painlessly  as  it  is  possible  to 
die,  in  the  course  of  the  year  of  one  of  those  or  of  kindred 
classics.  His  Aunt  Catherine,  then,  as  if  she  had  nothing 
particular  to  deter  or  detain  her,  turned  her  face  to  the 
wall,  and  as  quietly  followed  her.  It  was  two  years  later 
that  his  Aunt  Laura  took  every  one  by  surprise.  She  did 
not  die.  She  made  an  announcement  —  nothing  less,  if 
you  please,  than  that  she  was  going  to  be  married.  Out 
of  the  dim  past  had  arisen,  it  appeared,  an  old  admirer,  to 
renew  a  timid  offer  of  twenty  years  earlier,  when  he,  a 
widower  now  and  the  rector  of  a  large  Midland  parish, 
had  been  a  pale  young  curate  with  neither  means  nor  pros- 
pects, and  she  not  wholly  without  this- worldly  ambi- 
tions. 

"I  daresay  you'll  all  think  me  ridiculous,"  she  wrote. 
"At  my  time  of  life  one  ought  rather  to  be  thinking  of 
folding  the  hands  than  of  striking  out  in  new  directions, 
but  James"  (the  rector  of  Misterton  Sotherby's  blameless 
name)  "says  there  is  yet  work  for  me  to  do,  and  perhaps 
one  should  n't  turn  back  from  the  plough." 

Christopher  wanted  to  know  why  his  aunt  should  call 
his  prospective  uncle  a  Plough.  But,  "I  daresay,"  wrote 
his  mother  warmly,  and  with  gladness  in  her  contented 
eyes  —  "I  daresay  we  shall  think  you  nothing  of  the  sort! 
I  have  not  been  so  glad  about  anything  for  a  long  time, 
and  I  only  wish  darling  mother  and  Catherine  could  have 
lived  to  know.  I  remember  Mr.  Bermerdan  well  at  Chel- 
tenham, and  used  to  wonder  in  those  days  how  you  could 
resist  him." 

So,  as  the  green-shuttered  house  had  been  swept  away 
and  in  its  place  —  in  its  stead,  rather  —  was  there  the 
Datchet  house  which  in  turn  Christopher  called  "Home," 
and  to  which,  when  he  was  at  school,  he  came  for  his  holi- 
days, so  at  a  stroke,  or  at  three,  to  be  accurate,  was  the 
familiar  house  in  the  Place  Moliere  swept  out  of  his  exist- 


CHRISTOPHER  187 

ence.  Who  sat  now  in  his  grandmother's  chair  by  the  win- 
dow or  the  fire?  Who  came  and  went  now  through  the 
porte-cochere,  under  which  was  the  hall  door  with  the  brass 
knocker  he  had  once  known  so  well  ?  What  fingers  pressed 
the  yellow  keys  of  the  piano  on  which  his  Aunt  Catherine 
used  to  play  "Hark!  'tis  the  Indian  Drum,"  and  "Gaily 
the  Troubadour"  (for  him  to  sing),  and,  on  Sundays, 
"Sun  of  my  soul,"  to  which  his  Aunt  Laura  could  sing  a 
"second,"  and  "Rock  of  Ages,"  his  mother's  favourite, 
and  "Abide  with  me,"  his  grandmother's,  and  the  almost 
too  harrowing  "Thy  will  be  done"? 

If  them  shouldst  call  me  to  resign 
What  most  I  prize  —  it  ne'er  was  mine; 
I  only  yield  Thee  what  was  thine; 
Thy  will  .  .  . 

Too  harrowing.  Eyes  would  be  wet  in  the  softer  seventies. 
Too  harrowing. 

Changes,  changes. 

Celestine  was  gone.  She  had  married  her  Jean  Poulard 
and  was  the  mother  now  of  a  little  Jean,  a  little  Pierre 
called  after  Christopher's  Pierre  About,  and  hoped,  if 
the  Good  God  would,  yet  to  be  the  mother  of  a  little  Chris- 
tophe,  or  at  least  of  a  Christophine,  to  mark  her  tender 
and  respectful  sentiments  towards  the  family  she  had 
served.  Amelie  had  come  to  England  for  a  time,  but,  pre- 
sently homesick,  had  returned  tearfully  to  her  native  shores. 
She  was  heart-broken  to  leave  madame,  heart-broken, 
saddened  d  jamais,  desolated,  but  —  oh,  these  Buts. 
Blood  was  thicker  than  water. 

Trimmer  remained.  She  had  steadily  refused  to  marry 
her  piano-tuner,  and  as  she  had  accompanied  her  mistress 
to  India,  so  had  she  accompanied  her  to  the  new  life  in 
England.  No,  she  had  not  definitely  broken  with  her  piano- 
tuner.  He  was  there,  as  indeed  he  wrote  from  time  to  time 
to  remind  her,  there  if  she  wanted  him.  One  of  these  days, 
perhaps,  Master  Christopher.  Meanwhile  for  the  second 


i88  CHRISTOPHER 

time  in  her  life  her  arms  were  full.    Christopher  had  a 
little  sister. 

Never  had  a  boy,  busily  climbing  the  years,  a  happier 
home  to  come  back  to.  John  Hemming  had  made  no  idle 
protestations,  no  vain  promises  or  vows.  Christopher  had 
not  lost  his  mother  .  .  . 

It  was  difficult  afterwards  to  determine  the  exact  order 
of  the  trivial  events  which  made  up  life.  At  Boulogne 
things  had  happened  before  or  after  the  war.  So  near  Lon- 
don as  Windsor  and  Eton,  things  happened  for  the  most 
part  merely  to  the  tune  of  what  songs  ruled  the  moment. 
Thus  the  "Tommy,  make  Room"  period  was  followed  by 
periods  governed  in  turn  by  such  gems  as  "The  Old  and 
the  Young  Obadiah"  ("Said  the  Old  Obadiah  to  the  Young 
Obadiah,  'Obadiah,  Obadiah,  I  am  dry'"!);  "Whoa, 
Emma!"  "If  I  were  only  tall  enough";  "We  don't  want 
to  fight,  But,  by  jingo,  if  we  do";  "La  di  da"  (later),  and 
the  like.  There  was  a  "Nancy  Lee"  year,  and  a  year  of 
the  "Bric-a-Brac"  Polka.  "My  Grandfather's  Clock" 
marked  time.  "True  as  the  stars  that  are  shining,"  "Sil- 
ver threads  amongst  the  gold,"  and  "Molly  Darling"  held 
their  own.  Offenbach  was  giving  place  to  Lecoq  and  Plan- 
quette.  The  Gilbert  and  Sullivan  operas  were  coming 
along.  The  Gaiety  was  contributing  to  the  general  con- 
flict or  harmony.  There  were  plenty  of  popular  airs  to 
grow  up  to,  and  Christopher  was  very  busy  growing. 

Each  of  the  holidays,  as  it  came,  saw  come  back  to  the 
old  Georgian  house  a  different  boy,  however  essentially 
the  same,  or  the  same  boy,  however  externally  and  inter- 
nally changing.  His  father  had  been  at  Winchester,  and  it 
was  there,  in  deference  to  his  grandmother's  wish,  that  he 
went  for  his  schooling.  His  mother,  living  at  Datchet, 
would  naturally  have  liked  to  have  him  near  her  at  Eton, 
but  (and  for  this  reason,  maybe!)  old  Mrs.  Herrick  was 
urgent  —  went,  indeed,  on  undefined,  perhaps  indefinite 
claims,  as  near  as  might  be  to  insisting.  Anne,  after  a  few 


CHRISTOPHER  189 

tentative  arguments,  acquiesced.  John  Hemming  was  at 
one  with  her  mother-in-law. 

A  very  close  tie  still  held  the  boy  and  his  stepfather.  In 
a  way,  it  might  be  said  that  he  had  brought  his  mother  and 
her  former  lover  together.  John  never  forgot  that  to  him, 
and  the  two  were  firm  friends.  One  of  John's  first  doings  in 
the  early  days  was  to  teach  Christopher  to  ride.  The  boy 
was  found  to  have  good  hands.  He  delighted  in  this  new 
excitement,  and  his  rides  with  his  stepfather  were  amongst 
the  pleasantest  of  his  English  experiences.  He  learned  to 
shoot  and  to  fish.  Still  .  .  .  there  were  other  things  in  life 
beside  sport:  he  was  never,  and  he  knew  it,  to  lose  sight  of 
that  for  long.  Books  held  him,  pictures,  and  —  in  spite 
of  a  paradoxical  susceptibility  to  the  appeal,  howsoever 
crude,  of  the  most  tuppenny  tunes  of  the  moment — music! 
Such  people  as  his  Grandmother  Herrick  had  presently  to 
forgive  him  for  playing  the  piano!  He  ranged,  be  it  said, 
from  Chopin  to  Offenbach,  from  the  "Moonlight  Sonata" 
to  "What's  the  Odds  as  long  as  you're  'Appy?"  What 
were  the  "odds,"  after  all? 

His  school -days  were  the  tale  of  a  series  of  ardent  friend- 
ships —  friendships,  yet,  in  which  it  seemed  to  him  some- 
times that  he  gave  more  than  he  received.  This  might  be 
the  more  blessed  case  —  it  was,  he  knew,  perhaps,  after- 
wards ;  it  was  certainly  not  at  the  time  the  more  satisfying. 
He  asked  too  much,  perhaps.  Did  no  other  boys  love  quite 
as  he  loved?  All  that  he  had  put  into  his  childish  passion 
for  the  dead  Pierre  (who  remained  his  friend  because  death 
had  removed  him),  and  the  living  "young  Englishman" 
(who  had  ceased  in  a  sense  to  be  his  possession  when  he 
had  become  his  relation),  he  put  into  his  young  adorations. 
Something  was  always  withheld,  or  was  not  there,  even, 
to  be  withholden.  He  made  friends  easily  enough.  Not 
one,  perhaps,  of  those  to  whom  he  was  drawn  realised  that 
anything  lacked.  He  was  happy  when  his  chosen  friend  of 
any  particular  moment  had  need  of  him.  He  wanted  to 
sacrifice  himself  in  someway.  "Greater  love  than  this 


190  CHRISTOPHER 

hath  no  man  ..."  He  could,  or  he  thought  he  could, 
have  given  lives  for  his  friends. 

His  friends?  There  were  so  many.  Was  there  something 
lacking  in  him,  too,  that  he  could  so  effectually  replace 
one  with  another?  Was  he  fickle  in  his  affections,  change- 
able, unstable?  He  ran  through  an  incomplete  list.  There 
was  Redgrave,  whom  he  had  enshrined  in  his  heart  at 
Boulogne,  at  his  first  school  of  all.  Redgrave  was  a  chubby 
boy,  in  a  black  smock  with  a  shiny  belt,  who  was  cock  of 
the  walk,  and  to  whom  the  other  boys  deferred,  and  whom 
they  tacitly  combined  to  follow.  These  things  are  deter- 
mined from  the  beginning  of  time.  Redgrave  had  conde- 
scended to  show  Christopher  his  favour  —  accepted  sweets 
and  marbles  from  him,  tops  and  chestnuts.  With  him 
Christopher  had  vowed  eternal  vows  of  friendship.  Red- 
grave had  left  the  term  before  Christopher,  but  not  before 
Christopher  had  known  that  Redgrave  was  not  all  that  in 
his  ardour  he  had  thought  him.  Where  was  Redgrave  now, 
or  the  devotion  that  Christopher  had  poured  upon  him? 
Where  was  Shappleton?  Where  Jimmy  Hastings?  Where 
Nicholas  Minor?  Christopher  was  at  his  dame-school  at 
Windsor  then,  whither  he  went  daily  by  train.  After  that, 
at  his  preparatory  school  at  Eastbourne  there  were  Horn- 
castle  and  Hopwood  and  Laurence  Chain.  None  of  these 
were  what  Redgrave  had  stood  for.  There  had  really  been 
something  about  Redgrave  that  asked  devotion  and  got  it 
for  a  time,  but  each,  at  the  outset,  had  seemed  potentially 
what  Redgrave  was  not  but  might  have  been.  Then,  with 
the  great  change  to  the  wonderful  world  of  a  real  school,  the 
search  had  been  in  earnest. 

The  search?  It  was  that,  was  it?  Not  for  a  long  time 
did  Christopher  realise  that  he  was  seeking  his  own  — 
tasting,  trying,  sifting,  rejecting.  He  would  know  his  own 
when,  indeed,  he  found  it,  as  like  knows  like.  This,  then, 
was  the  answer  to  what  he  had  asked  himself.  He  was  not 
fickle  in  his  affections,  nor  changeable  nor  unstable.  What 
looked  like  each  of  these  qualities  was  a  very  earnest  of  his 


CHRISTOPHER  191 

constancy.  His  constancy  to — to  what?  To  an  ideal.  To 
something  outside  and  yet  within  himself.  He  would 
know  it  —  him,  her  —  when  at  length  the  looked-for  came. 
Meanwhile,  looking  into  many  faces  he  asked,  Is  it  you? 

Is  it  you?  said  Christopher,  even  when  he  was  busiest 
mounting  the  years; —  Is  it  you?  Sometimes  the  words 
(which,  of  course,  were  never  spoken)  were,  Is  n't  it  you? 
This  time  I  am  sure  that  it  is  you.  Don't  you  think  that 
perhaps  it  is  you?  No?  Are  you  sure?  And  he  would  look 
again,  and  sooner  or  later  would  come  the  knowledge  and 
the  disappointment.  Never.  Not  even  when  he  had 
thought  —  not  when  the  lifting  of  the  veil  had  seemed  most 
imminent.  The  nod;  the  passing  on;  the  casual  and  the 
stranger  for  the  boon  companion,  for  the  other  of  the  two 
travellers  who,  somewhen,  somehow,  somewhere,  must 
surely  have  journeyed,  or  have  it  before  them  to  journey, 
side  by  side. 

Morbid?  Christopher  wasn't  morbid.  You  had  only 
to  look  at  him,  at  the  vigorous  glow  which  warmed  him 
and  you,  at  his  clear  eyes  and  fresh  firm  skin.  If  morbid 
mean  any  deviation  from  whole-health,  Christopher  was 
not  morbid. 

Something,  all  the  same,  marked  him  off  from  his  fellows. 

"What  do  you  mean,  young  Herrick  —  about  playing 
the  sunset  on  the  piano?  Smith  Major  says  you  said  you 
could." 

"I  didn't  say  I  could.  I  said  it  could  be  played.  It 
could,  too." 

"What  rot!" 

"I  could  play  what  it  seems  like  to  me." 

"Paint  it,  you  mean,  you  young  idiot." 

"Play  it.   If  it  could  be  painted,  it  could  be  played." 

"What  cheek!" 

A  very  young  incident,  a  long  way  back  in  the  early 
school-days,  but  significant. 

It  could  be  played,  and  what  cheek!  The  dividing  wall. 
Christopher  in  his  closest  intimacies  was  to  be  aware  of  it. 


I92  CHRISTOPHER 

"Herrick's  listening  to  the  inkpot." 

"Herrick  can  smell  moonlight." 

"  I  say,  Herrick,  what's  the  taste  of  a  nice  clap  of  thun- 
der?" 

All  very  good-tempered,  of  course,  because  every  one 
liked  him.  There  it  was,  however,  and  the  worst  of  it  was 
that  it  was  true.  Christopher  knew  the  sound  of  still  ink 
quite  well,  the  smell  of  moonlight,  and  the  taste  of  thun- 
der. He  could  hear,  in  other  words,  the  spherical  song  of 
the  stars. 

By  degrees  he  came  to  understand.  The  answer  to  his 
question  was  the  answer  to  many  more.  A  propos,  he 
heard  Trimmer's  "Come  along,  Master  Christopher."  It 
was  the  deferred  solution  of  that  amongst  other  things. 
Trimmer  had  really  not  seen  what  he  saw,  not  heard,  not 
felt.  Neither  had  his  mother.  Nor  did  most  people.  Yet, 
still  a  propos,  if  indeed  he  was  in  any  way  different,  there 
must  be  others  like  himself.  It  was  his  misfortune,  at 
school  at  any  rate,  not  to  meet  them.  There  must  be  others, 
and  some  day  he  would  fall  in  with  his  own. 

The  years  were  pushed  behind  him.  He  did  moderately 
well,  took  a  prize  or  two,  had  it  in  his  power,  and  was  said 
to  have  it  in  his  power,  to  do  better.  His  school  reports 
were  the  reports  of  the  average  boy.  They  disappointed 
his  mother  a  little.  His  stepfather,  with  a  better  under- 
standing, perhaps,  made  light  of  them. 

"  It 's  only  —  "  Anne  said,  and,  as  was  her  way  when  she 
was  perplexed,  did  not  finish. 

"Only  what?" 

"When  I  think  of  —  of  the  promise  he  showed." 

John  did  not  say,  "What  promise?"  though  at  that  mo- 
ment he  had  Christopher's  wonderful  stepsister  (who  did 
show  promise,  if  you  like!)  on  his  knee.  He  said,  "  That's 
all  right,  and  so's  Christopher." 

"Of  course,"  said  Anne,  "of  course" ;  but  could  not  help 
adding,  "Only — " 

"Only  what?  "as  before. 


CHRISTOPHER  193 

"When  is  he  going  to  begin?"  said  Anne  at  last. 

"Begin?"  he  said.  Christopher's  loyal  stepfather 
gathered  himself  up.  "Bless  the  dear  woman,  must  I 
explain  her  own  son  to  her?  What  does  she  expect  if  she 
will  be  the  mother  of  poets?  Begin?  He's  begun.  You  don't 
have  to  write  poetry  to  be  a  poet,  or  paint  pictures  to  be 
an  artist.  He's  living  every  inch  of  his  life.  That's  his 
work.  Let  that  be  enough  for  him,  and  don't  bother  your 
head  about  schoolmasters'  reports.  What  are  they,  when 
all's  said?" 

"Well,  some  sort  of  an  indication." 

"The  observations  generally  of  men  whose  occupations 
prevent  their  seeing  beyond  the  ends  of  their  noses."  He 
turned  to  his  daughter.  "She  should  have  seen  your  father's 
reports,  my  Fatima." 

Fatima  gurgled. 

Anne  smiled.  "Oh,  I  should  n't  have  been  looking  for 
anything  remarkable  from  yours,  John." 

John  kissed  his  wife. 

"That's  where  you  would  have  been  wrong,  and  what 
proves  my  point.  They  were  continually,  and  uniformly, 
and  quite  remarkably,  excellent." 

Living  every  inch  of  his  life,  was  he?  Christopher  at 
school,  and  pressing  forward  to  the  time  when  he  should 
throw  off  its  shackles,  might  have  wondered.  In  a  sense 
he  was.  There  were  hours  that  few  of  his  schoolfellows 
lived  as  fully  as  he.  There  were  days  when  he  walked  upon 
air  —  spring  days  quick  with  the  sense  and  the  assurance 
of  what  was  coming ;  days  of  summer  and  flannels  and  the 
cricket-field ;  long,  long,  days  when  the  daylight  like  Josh- 
ua's sun,  seemed  miraculously  stayed,  and  wonderful  things, 
scents,  hummings,  whispers,  were  in  the  air;  autumn  days 
of  quite  other  scents  and  sounds;  blustering  or  crisply 
frozen  days  of  winter.  But  against  these  were  many  days 
and  hours,  the  very  purpose  and  meaning  of  which  escaped 
him.  It  was  then  that  he  felt  himself  shut  in  and,  shut 


194  CHRISTOPHER 

off  by  and  from  the  common  informing  spirit  of  the  com- 
munity. 

He  loved  school  and  hated  it  —  left  it  at  last  as  he  had 
left  Boulogne,  without,  at  the  time,  a  regret,  but  after- 
wards to  suffer  pangs  of  nostalgia  and  remorse.  When  it 
was  behind  him  he  knew  how  happy  he  had  been  there,  and 
how  he  had  loved  it. 

Oxford  then,  New;  and  the  world  once  more  widened. 
He  settled  down  into  the  life  as  ducks  take  to  water.  This 
surely  was  one  of  the  goals  towards  which  he  had  been 
urging.  Now  he  was  really  happy.  His  first  year  sped ;  his 
second ;  he  grudged  the  vacations  that  took  him  from  a  life 
so  congenial  to  him  in  every  possible  way.  Now  he  seemed 
to  have  his  pick  of  the  friends  that  he  wanted.  Amongst 
so  many  he  could  drop  the  search.  Is  it  you?  It  was  no 
one  or  heaps  of  people. 

Then  it  was  that,  having  bent  the  knee  to  no  particular 
woman,  he  met  one  the  sight  of  whom  weakened  him  sud- 
denly. He  was  conscious  of  a  swimming  of  his  senses,  of  a 
weakness  almost  physical,  so  that  for  a  moment  the 
strength  seemed  taken  from  his  limbs.  This  at  the  sight 
of  a  slip  of  a  girl,  tall,  slender,  lily-white,  who  with  one 
glance  of  her  eyes  answered  the  question  he  had  ceased  to 
put,  and  answered  it,  or  he  thought  so  then,  finally.  Is  it 
you?  You,  at  last?  It  is  I,  Christy  —  Cora  St.  Jemison. 


CHAPTER  II 

NOT  that  he  knew  who  she  was,  or  was  to  know  immedi- 
ately. He  saw  her  at  Victoria  Station,  where  he  was  seeing 
his  mother  and  Fatima,  accompanied  by  the  faithful 
Trimmer,  off  to  Herrickswood  for  one  of  the  periodical 
visits  to  his  grandmother.  His  stepfather,  just  then,  was 
fishing  in  Norway,  and  he  himself  on  the  point  of  going 
abroad  with  a  friend. 

Fatima,  who,  out  of  compliment  to  her  mother  Anne 
and  the  lady  of  his  mother's  song,  was  really  Ancebel,  but 
who  still  was  plump  enough  to  bear  aptly  her  father's  pet 
name  for  her,  was  now  an  engaging  child  of  ten  or  so,  who 
hung  on  to  her  tall  brother's  words  (and  his  arm  and  his 
waist,  and  his  neck  if  he  would  let  her),  and  worshipped 
the  grown-up  ground  that  he  walked  on.  She  conceived, 
on  this  day,  an  amiable  hatred  of  all  slim  lily-white  girls, 
by  reason  of  one,  and  that  one's  effect,  upon  the  big 
brother  whom  she  looked  upon  as  her  special  property. 
She  saw.  Fatimas  of  ten  or  eleven,  even,  —  Fatimae,  as 
Christopher  called  such  little  sisters  as  his  when  he  had 
occasion  to  speak  of  them  in  the  plural  —  Fatimse,  of  ten 
even,  have  eyes.  Oh,  Fatima  saw! 

The  Continental  train  was  at  the  opposite  platform.  It 
was  getting  up  steam.  The  usual  busy  crowd  hummed 
about  it.  Fatima  already  was  jealous  of  it,  first,  because 
a  day  or  two  later  it  would  be  bearing  Christopher  and  his 
friend  (of  whom,  too,  she  was  jealous)  away  on  their  short 
travels,  while  she  had  to  do  without  her  brother  at  Her- 
rickswood, whither  he  might  otherwise  have  accompanied 
her;  and,  secondly,  because  its  air  of  importance  threw  all 
such  less  adventurous  trains,  as  that  by  which  she  and  her 
mother  and  Trimmer  were  to  make  their  modest  journey, 
into  a  shade  palpably  as  it  seemed  to  her  inglorious. 


196  CHRISTOPHER 

Christopher  and  she,  near  the  door  of  the  carriage  in 
which  their  mother  had  taken  her  place,  with  Trimmer  in 
the  next,  watched  the  animated  crowd.  Here  were  most 
sorts  and  many  conditions:  good  travellers,  easy,  self- 
possessed,  leisurely;  bad  travellers,  fussy,  heated,  flurried. 
Here  were  brides  and  bridegrooms  —  the  usual  sprinkling 

—  and  seeming  bridegrooms  and  brides.   Here  were  afflu- 
ence   neatly    appointed,    and    affluence    over-appointed; 
indigence  (but  not  much,  by  the  boat  train,  of  indigence), 
showing  a  fair  front;  something,  maybe,  of  polite  roguery. 
Here  were  maiden  ladies.   Here  were  parents;  families;  a 
handful  of  schoolboys ;  some  little  girls,  —  Fatimae,  —  a 
percentage   of   sunburnt   Christophers;   couriers,   ladies- 
maids,  valets. 

"I  jolly  well  wish  I  was  going."  said  Fatima. 
"Jolly  well,  do  you?"  said  Christopher. 
"With  you,"  said  Fatima. 

"Harringay,"  he  named  his  prospective  companion, 
"would  throw  you  out  of  the  window.  He  hates  little  girls 

—  all  Fatimae  and  kindred  species." 

"Oh,  does  he  —  the  beast?"  said  Fatima  elegantly. — 
"Yes,  mother,  in  one  minute,  we  're  not  off  yet  — [does  he?  " 
She  looked  at  her  brother.  "Chuck  him  and  come  down  to 
Herrickswood.  Grandmother  Herrick  would  love  to  have 
you.  You  know  you  have  n't  seen  her  for  a  long  time,  and 
you  know  you  ought  to.  Besides,  we'd  ride  every  day. 
Think  of  the  downs.  What  do  you  want  to  go  abroad  for? 
You've  been  there." 

Christopher  laughed. 

"Oh,  I've  been  there,  have  I?  To  'Abroad'  eh?  Well,  I 
want  to  go  there  again,  Fatty,  so  what  shall  I  bring  you? 
Jewels  or  silks  or  just  a  rose?  Just  a  rose,  Beauty,  shan't  I, 
and  then,  perhaps  —  then,  perhaps  — " 

He  broke  off.  She  looked  to  see  why. 

The  lily-white  girl  was  coming  down  the  platform.  She 
was  all  slimness  and  youngness  and  lily-whiteness.  Even 
so  prejudiced  a  critic  as  Fatima  could  see  that  she  was 


CHRISTOPHER  197 

beautiful.   Young  as  she  was,  there  was  not  a  harsh  line, 
not  a  curve  that  was  not  exquisitely  rounded. 

Some  luggage  obstructed  the  way.  Walking  beside  an 
elderly  man,  in  the  wake  of  servants  who  went  on  before 
to  prepare,  she  passed  quite  close  to  Christopher.  He  moved 
a  little  to  make  room  for  her,  and,  as  she  acknowledged  the 
trifling  courtesy  on  his  part,  their  eyes  met.  It  was  as  if  he 
had  received  a  blow  which  left  him  reeling. 

The  two  passed  on  to  where  a  valet  and  a  maid  stood  at 
the  door  of  a  carriage  which  was  evidently  reserved.  They 
got  in,  and  the  servants  went  their  ways  to  see  to  luggage 
or  find  seats  for  themselves.  Christopher  tried  in  vain  to 
take  up  the  thread  of  what  he  had  been  saying.  Fatima 
was  looking  at  him  oddly. 

"Now,  Ancebel,  dear,  you  must  get  in.  Say  good-bye 
to  him  and  get  in." 

Fatima,  kissing  him,  said,  "  I  hate  her.   I  hate  her." 

He  did  not  even  ask  whom,  but  kissed  her  absently. 

"Good-bye,  darling." 

His  mother  was  leaning  from  the  window. 

"Enjoy  yourself,  and  write  to  us  often." 

A  whistle  sounded. 

"Is  that  us?"  —  So  his  mother. 

It  was  not.  But  it  was  the  Continental  train.  He  saw 
it  steam  out,  handkerchiefs  and  hats  waving. 

Well,  he,  too,  would  be  travelling  by  it  the  day  after 
the  next.  How  glad  he  was.  "Abroad"  was  a  big  place, 
but  .  .  .  who  knew? 

"  Don't  wait,  darling.  I  wish  you  were  coming  with  us." 

"He  does  n't,"  growled  Fatima  over  her  shoulder. 

Then  their  train,  too,  steamed  out,  and  Christopher, 
hardly  knowing  that  he  was  doing  so,  stood  blankly  on  the 
empty  platform  looking  after  its  disappearing  tail. 

He  recovered  himself  presently  —  came  to  his  senses  — 
and  left  the  station. 

It  was  a  gorgeous  day  towards  the  end  of  July.  Though 
the  Matches  were  over,  and  Henley,  and  there  remained 


198  CHRISTOPHER 

but  Goodwood  to  give  the  season  its  final  blow,  London 
was  still  full.  The  streets  were  nearly  as  closely  thronged 
with  carriages  as  they  had  been  at  the  beginning  of  the 
month,  and  even  the  Row,  where  it  was  the  custom  then 
to  ride  in  the  late  afternoon,  was  not  yet  perceptibly 
emptier.  Christopher,  infected  theretofore  with  his  short 
taste  of  the  delights  of  the  town,  had  meant  to  ride  that 
afternoon,  but  now  changed  his  mind  and  countermanded 
his  horse.  He  felt  a  sudden  distaste  for  his  kind.  It  was  a 
day  for  the  woods  and  cool  solitudes,  for  sleepy  meadows 
or  breezy  uplands.  He  was  half  sorry  that  he  was  not  at 
home  that  he  might  have  spent  a  long  day  on  the  river. 
But  more  he  wished  himself  in  Oxford,  where,  if  late  July 
even  did  not  find  it  deserted,  he  could  yet  have  found 
many  a  spot  to  suit  his  mood.  And  then  he  wanted  Bou- 
logne, bits  of  the  old  town,  the  silence  and  the  mystery  of 
the  Ramparts. 

All  his  life  seemed  to  have  pressed  towards  this  day. 

He  went  back  to  his  rooms  in  Jermyn  Street,  and  with 
an  impulse  to  get  away  as  far  as  possible  from  this  life  of 
London  (which  he  yet  loved),  he  changed  into  a  suit  of  old 
clothes  and  went  out  again.  He  had  no  settled  plan.  He 
only  felt  that  he  wanted  to  be  alone  and  to  think. 

He  did  not  know  London  well,  except,  perhaps,  the  heart 
of  it — that  part  of  it,  for  example,  round  which  revolved 
the  life  of  the  last  two  or  three  weeks  —  so  much  of  the 
season  as  his  terms  at  Oxford  allowed  him  to  have  a  share 
in.  When  he  thought  of  London  it  was  always  of  such  por- 
tions of  it  as  Piccadilly  and  Pall  Mall  and  the  Strand,  of  the 
neighbourhoods  of  its  picture  galleries  and  theatres,  and 
of  those  particular  streets  and  squares  in  which  so  many 
houses  at  certain  times  of  year,  it  seemed,  were  ready  to 
entertain  him.  But  north,  south,  east,  and  west  of  certain 
fairly  definite  boundaries,  he  knew  nothing. 

Chelsea  at  this  time,  except  at  its  outposts,  was  an  un- 
known country  to  him.  On  this  day  of  days  he  made  its 
discovery.  It  met  his  mood  generously.  Here  were  houses 


CHRISTOPHER  199 

that  breathed  the  spirit  of  other  days.  Here  were  walls  of 
mellow  brick,  gardens,  haunts  of  ancient  peace.  Was  there 
a  smell  of  flowers,  or  did  he  imagine  it?  Under  an  archway, 
or  through  an  open  door,  were  glimpses  to  be  caught  of 
green  and  yet  more  green.  Ivies  "mantled"  many  a  case- 
ment. At  the  end  of  a  passage  you  might  see  a  curtain  of 
Virginia  creeper  sway  gently  as  it  hung  from  a  lintel. 
There  was  everywhere  the  sense  of  hidden  gardens. 

And  at  the  foot  of  all  this  the  river. 

Christopher  lunched  at  an  inn  long  since  swept  away. 
He  called,  as  seemed  right,  here,  for  bread-and-cheese  and 
beer. 

After  that  he  sat  for  a  time  by  the  river  watching  the 
craft.  He  was  reminded  of  "The  Waterman,"  of  "Jacob 
Faithful,"  of  "Wapping  Old  Stairs"  —  names  and  some- 
thing more  than  names  to  one  who  had  known  the  enthral- 
ments  of  Skelt  of  Swan  Minories,  Webb  of  Old  Street  St. 
Lukes,  and  Redington  of  Hoxton  Street,  "formerly" 
Hoxton  Old  Town  —  of  the  toy  theatre  generally.  For  of 
course  he  had  known  these  in  his  boyhood.  They,  too, 
seemed  to  have  had  their  part  in  preparing  him  for  —  even 
in  leading  him  to  —  this  strange  day.  The  lily-white  maid 
was  foreshadowed  for  him,  perhaps,  in  the  Lady  Elvira, 
say,  of  "  Pizarro,"  in  Ravina  of  "  The  Miller  and  His  Men," 
in  Lumina  of  "  The  Silver  Palace."  He  smiled  to  himself. 

Barges  passed  him  with  sails  red  like  rust,  steamers, 
pleasure  boats — even  the  amazing  Maria  Wood  was  out 
upon  this  day  for  his  benefit.  The  old  civic  barge  lumbered 
by.  Her  flamboyant  greens  and  reds  and  yellows  flamed 
and  flared  in  the  sunlight.  She  was  like  some  Dutch  im- 
propriety, some  gross  but  good-tempered  flaunting  woman 
—  always,  for  some  reason,  of  the  Netherlands!  —  with 
a  jolly  laugh  and  a  frank  shamelessness  that  made  her 
beautiful.  She  was  ridiculous  too.  Top-hatted  men  were 
dancing  on  her  decks. 

Christopher  laughed  out.  Oh,  wonderful  day,  that 
mixed  its  delights  for  him!  Here  again  was  a  steamer. 


200  CHRISTOPHER 

Why  not  adventure  further  in  this  enchanting  London  that 
he  was  finding  for  himself? 

No  sooner  thought  of  than  done.  He  ran  to  the  neigh- 
bouring pier.  He  was  in  time.  Where  should  he  book  for? 
Where  could  he?  The  man  in  the  little  box  suggested 
Greenwich  through  the  hole  in  the  window. 

"Greenwich,  then,"  said  Christopher. 

It  was  "  Box  and  Cox  "  now  that  he  was  reminded  of.  He 
had  played  Box  —  or  was  it  Cox?  —  in  young  theatricals 
one  Christmas. 

"Visions  of  Greenwich  and  back"  for  so  much  and  so 
much  —  was  it  not  somehow  thus  that  one  line  which  he 
had  spoken  had  run?  And  Greenwich?  He  was  back  with 
the  toy  theatre  again  and  "Jacob  Faithful."  All  his  life 
was  bound  up  with  this  day. 

He  went  on  board  and  looked  about  for  a  seat  to  please 
him. 

Some  one  else  was  on  board  a  steamer  now  —  at  this 
very  moment.  Oh,  wonderful !  Unwittingly,  by  his  chance 
decision,  he  had  established  the  semblance,  at  least,  of 
a  connection  between  her  and  himself.  From  the  deck 
of  this  mimic  steamer  to  the  deck  of  the  steamer  which 
bore  her  away,  he  sent  out  the  current  of  his  thoughts.  In 
the  fervour  of  his  imagination  he  joined  the  occultists,  fore- 
stalled the  inventors;  but  was  there  ever  a  lover  who  did 
not  know?  If  she  was  not  thinking  of  him  (they  had  looked 
deeply  into  each  other's  eyes),  he  would  so  batter  her  with 
thoughts  that  she  would  be  forced  to  admit  them  and  to 
think  of  him.  .  .  . 

Is  it  you?  But  it  is  you.  I  know  that  at  last  it  is  you. 
You  know  it.  Were  you,  too,  looking  .  .  .  ?  Yes,  you 
know  it  as  I  do. 

Then:  Who  are  you,  Beautiful?  Where  did  you  come 
from  this  wonderful  morning?  Wherever  you  came  from, 
it  was  to  me  that  you  were  coming.  I  had  been  calling 
you.  For  years  I  have  called  you  .  .  . 

Then:  Where  were  you  going  to?  I  can  see  you  looking 


CHRISTOPHER  201 

out  to  sea.  Where  are  you  going?  Not  that  it  matters. 
Wherever  you  go,  sooner  or  later  I  shall  find  you.  Now 
that  I  know  that  you  are  —  that  you  exist  and  that  I 
have  n't  only  imagined  you  —  I  know  I  shall  find  you  .  .  . 
Look  across  the  water.  Look  back.  I  am  here.  Look, 
look,  look  .  .  . 

The  tide  was  at  the  flood.  The  river  brimmed.  High 
rode  the  penny  steamboat  bearing  the  dreamer.  He  saw 
the  old  walls  of  Lambeth  Palace  through  his  dream,  the 
Houses  of  Parliament,  Westminster  Bridge. 

People  looked  at  him.  He  was  easy  to  look  at  —  well- 
grown,  clean-limbed,  and  (for  a  dreamer)  muscular. 
His  arm  was  resting  on  the  gunwale  and  supported  his 
head.  He  had  taken  off  his  hat  and  the  breeze  blew  his 
hair  back  from  a  low  forehead.  Seen  thus  in  profile  he  had 
looks  and  to  spare.  Nor  did  he  disappoint  you  when  he 
turned  his  face  towards  you. 

That  day,  for  his  unconscious  sake,  a  shop-girl  snubbed 
her  well-meaning  and  innocent  lover  —  was  unresponsive 
and  even  disagreeable  to  the  wholly  unoffending  for  the 
rest  of  the  afternoon.  A  young  wife  contrasted  freshness 
and  strength  and  youth,  as  embodied  upon  the  seat  op- 
posite to  her,  with  the  musty,  beery,  middle-age  of  the 
spouse  beside  her.  A  romantic  school-girl  read  a  new 
hero  into  her  favourite  novels. 

So,  love  flowing  out  from  him  (if  it  was  love  or  could 
be !)  flowed  also  (if  this  in  its  turn  was  love)  towards  him. 

A  bit  of  Lambeth,  east  of  the  Palace,  reminded  him  of 
the  fishing-town  at  Boulogne.  Nets  should  hang  to  dry 
from  such  windows  as  those.  This,  too,  was  London;  all 
London.  By  an  association  of  remote  ideas  he  thought  of 
Ratcliffe  Highway,  which  he  had  never  seen,  —  the  lurid 
glories  of  which  had  long  since  disappeared,  —  and  pic- 
tured it  as  flanked  by  such  houses.  Some  day,  for  the  sake 
of  its  name,  and  the  feelings  that  name  gave  him,  he  must 


202  CHRISTOPHER 

see  what  was  left  of  it,  or  at  least  where  it  had  been  in  its 
terrible  day.  At  the  thought  of  it  he  could  conjure  up 
visions  of  dancing-saloons;  of  dancing,  fighting,  drunken 
sailors;  dancing,  fighting,  garish  women,  with  their  hair 
in  oiled  waves  in  front,  and  long  nets  at  the  back.  All 
London!  Here  presently  was  Charing  Cross  Station, 
which  did  not  matter,  and  a  few  moments  later  Cleopatra's 
Needle,  which  did.  The  water  danced  in  the  sunshine. 
If  you  looked  closely  at  it  you  could  see  that  it  was  not 
clear.  What  should  have  been  sediment  was  churned  up 
in  it.  You  could  see  the  mass  of  the  mud  particles  turning 
over  and  over  in  it.  It  was  cloudy  as  diluted  milk,  and  it 
was  grey  where  sunlight  or  reflections  did  not  colour  it. 
Yet  it  was  beautiful.  Nothing  could  be  ugly  that  day  — 
not  even  the  imps  of  children  who  amused  themselves  so 
gracelessly  upon  the  bridges.  Here  was  Somerset  House, 
grey  as  the  river;  Waterloo  Bridge  for  the  suicides;  Black- 
friars,  to  please  you,  who  cared  for  the  sound  of  names,  with 
the  sound  of  its  own. 

Presently  London  Bridge  itself. 

You  had  to  change  to  another  boat,  it  seemed.  Two  per- 
sons who  were  not  going  on  to  Greenwich  looked  after 
him. 

"What  are  you  walking  backwards  for?"  —  if  he  could 
have  heard! 

"Shall  if  I  like!"  —  and  a  petulant  "What  did  you  want 
to  settle  to  go  up  the'silly  Monument  for  at  all?  All  those 
steps  —  when  we  might  have  kept  on  the  water?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what's  come  to  you  to-day. 
There's  no  pleasing  you." 

Any  pleasing  her!  The  poor  fellow  was  right.  There 
was  not. 

Christopher,  making  his  way  to  the  Greenwich  boat, 
did  not  know,  nor  would  he  have  believed  that  he  was, 
or  he  could  be,  responsible  for  the  mischief.  He  did  not 
see  the  romantic  school-girl's  laggard  steps  either,  nor 
would  he  have  understood  them.  He  could  believe  in  these 


CHRISTOPHER  203 

sudden  emotions  himself,  but  that  he  should  be  able  to 
evoke  them  —  always,  of  course,  except  in  the  one  amaz- 
ing instance  in  which  the  miracle  had  to  happen  —  would 
happily  have  struck  him  as  ludicrous. 

There  was  some  little  delay  before  the  Greenwich  boat 
started;  then  once  more  Christopher  was  being  carried 
down  the  stream.  The  Pool  of  London.  Big  ships  now 
—  towering  above  you  as  you  paddled  under  their  giant 
hulls;  ocean-going  vessels  back  from  China,  or  the  West 
Indies,  or  where  else  you  will.  These,  for  the  most  part, 
seemed  resting  from  their  labours;  one,  only,  buzzed  like 
a  hive.  Here  and  there  a  man  slung  in  a  cradle  plied  a 
leisurely  brush. 

Names  and  more  names :  Billingsgate  (there  was  always 
some  one  to  tell  you  —  the  difficulty  to  stop  the  telling!), 
with  Lower  Thames  Street  behind  it.  He  did  not  want  to 
know,  but  brightened  at  a  mention  of  Seething  Lane, 
hard-by  if  inland  and  out  of  sight,  and  Crutched  Friars. 
Pickle  Herring  Stairs!  He  could  forgive  the  officious  for 
giving  him  that.  The  Tower  he  could  recognise  for  himself. 
But  Wapping  Old  Stairs,  suddenly!  Wapping  Old  Stairs 
itself!  And  there  were,  it  seemed,  a  Wapping  New  Stairs, 
and  a  Wapping  Dock  Stairs.  The  officious  had  their  uses  in 
a  world  where  you  must  not  miss  anything.  Christopher 
even  looked  grateful. 

He  moved  none  the  less  to  another  part  of  the  boat.  It 
was  useless,  however.  He  had  to  know.  Elephant  Stairs; 
Rotherhithe  Church,  Frying- Pan  Stairs.  Limehouse; 
Millwall  (all  amongst  the  docks  now);  Deptford  Creek; 
finally  Greenwich.  The  voyage  was  over. 

He  landed  with  the  rest  of  the  passengers.  Here  was  the 
Ship  famous  once  for  its  fish-dinners.  Let  be!  Here  were 
odd  little  eating-houses  which  tried  to  tempt  him  into 
shrimps  and  watercress  and  tea.  Here  were  furtive  tea- 
gardens  that  had  an  air  of  being  a  survival  from  other  and 
different  days.  The  town  catered  for  the  holiday  mood. 


204  CHRISTOPHER 

He  saw  barrows  spread  with  little  plates  containing 
strange  shell-fish;  smelled  near  them  the  pricking  smell  of 
vinegar.  Old  women  sat  by  baskets  piled  with  oranges, 
or  perhaps  a  little  stall  on  which  were  nuts  and  apples  and 
sweets.  A  dapper-looking  man  with  a  horse  and  cart  ex- 
tolled the  merits  of  Sarsaparilla.  Was  every  day  there  a 
sort  of  fair-day  in  those  days?  With  many  conflicting  in- 
fluences, easily  to  be  detected,  the  spirit  of  the  place  was 
earliest  Victorian,  with  a  suggestion,  perhaps,  of  that  of 
the  Regency.  Christopher  half  expected  to  hear  the  vy, 
vich,  and  werry,  the  veil,  vot,  and  wisible  (or  wirtuous  or  wi- 
cious,  or  wenturesome  —  any  kindred  perversion !)  of  the 
days  of  Sam  Weller. 

He  made  for  the  Hospital,  exchanged  words  with  a  pen- 
sioner or  two;  saw  the  Painted  Hall,  the  Chapel,  the  Mu- 
seum. All  these  gave  him  something.  Not  what  he  wanted, 
however,  and  he  turned  his  steps  towards  the  Park. 

A  few  couples  were  rolling  down  the  hill ! 

Rowlandson,  was  it,  who  should  have  seen  them?  or 
Gilray?  or,  further  back  still,  Hogarth  —  who  would  have 
used  them  to  point  a  moral? 

The  Maria  Wood  (not  that  he  knew  her  name  then), 
with  the  top-hatted  men  dancing  on  her  decks,  and  now 
linked  couples  rolling  down  a  hill!  Was  not  the  day 
bountifully  generous?  The  day  gave  with  both  hands.  He 
laughed  again,  hugging  himself. 

But  neither  was  this  what  he  wanted.  It  was  not  till  he 
had  left  this  scene  behind  him,  that  the  real  spirit  of  the 
old  park  revealed  itself  to  him. 

Then  the  ancient  trees  spoke  to  him,  the  gentle  grassy 
slopes,  the  view  of  the  winding  river.  And  then  he  re- 
captured his  vision. 


CHAPTER  III 

HE  threw  himself  at  full  length  upon  the  ground,  and 
resting  upon  his  elbows  looked  down.  From  his  place  on  the 
hill  he  saw  the  scene  as  a  map  spread  before  him.  In  it 
there  were  odd  lights  and  shades  —  murkinesses,  and  lumi- 
nous patches,  smoke-wreathings,  mists,  hazes,  milky  white- 
nesses shot  with  iridescent  colour,  which  turned  for  him 
what  he  saw,  not  once  but  again  and  again,  into  a  mon- 
strous opal.  Or  the  sun,  catching  glass  somewhere,  or 
gilding,  or  shining  metal,  would  transform  the  whole  land- 
scape into  a  setting  for  isolated  points  of  fire. 

It  had  been  breezy  on  the  water,  but  here  in  the  park 
the  air  was  warm  and  still.  After  the  freshness  of  the  river 
the  heat  of  the  sun  upon  his  back  was  very  pleasant.  He 
stretched  himself  closer  to  the  warm  earth.  It  was  a  day 
for  bathing,  —  to  be  in  and  out  of  the  sea,  —  to  lie  naked 
on  hot  sands,  to  lie  in  sun-warmed  streams,  or  on  the  hot 
pebbles  beside  them.  Life  was  fervent  upon  such  a  day  of 
summer.  It  was  difficult  to  think  that  there  could  be  any 
pain  in  it,  or  any  sorrow,  any  ageing,  even  —  slackening 
of  the  grip,  gradual  cooling  of  young  blood.  His  eyes  rested 
on  the  Hospital.  He  looked  away  and  then  looked  back. 
Well?  The  thought  persisted.  Well?  The  pensioners 
down  there,  then  —  if  it  would  not  be  evaded  —  old  men 
whose  fires  burned  low,  whose  backs  were  bent  and  limbs 
knotted,  who  dragged  a  leg  or  swung  a  useless  arm,  or 
stumped  on  wooden  props  down  the  narrowing  alley  of  the 
years,  —  had  they,  too,  felt  as  he  felt  on  this  day  when  he  had 
seen  his  love?  Had  they,  too,  thrilled  to  the  kiss  of  the 
sun  as  he  thrilled  now,  been  conscious  of  life,  and  of  the  joy 
of  it,  in  every  nerve  and  fibre?  All  of  them.  Not  one,  per- 
haps, but  could  look  back  to  some  such  day  and  say,  "Then 
I  was  alive." 


206  CHRISTOPHER 

The  hour  would  come  when  he  too  would  look  back.  .  .  . 

Almost  unconsciously  at  the  thought,  as  if  to  make  sure 
that  the  insidious  change  had  not  indeed  begun,  he  passed 
his  hand  over  his  body,  over  his  chest,  his  side,  as  he  half 
turned  on  to  the  other,  over  the  hip,  and  the  thigh,  and 
the  calf  of  his  leg.  The  firm  young  flesh  under  the  thin 
flannel,  the  stout  muscle  under  the  firm  flesh,  the  well-knit 
frame  of  bone  under  all  —  these,  if  he  had  been  conscious 
of  them,  or  wholly  conscious  of  his  action,  might  have  re- 
assured him.  Perhaps  the  sense  of  them  under  his  uncon- 
scious hand  did  restore  him  to  his  pride  of  them  —  the 
pride  of  the  young  man  in  his  youth;  for  the  mood  passed. 
Time  enough !  The  day,  for  him  at  least,  was  not  far  spent; 
the  night  truly  not  at  hand.  The  years  as  yet  were  very 
long. 

There  were  lovers  in  the  park,  and  he  felt  in  tune  with 
them.  Only  lovers  see.  Only  lovers  know.  Quite  ordi- 
nary and  even  quite  ugly  couples  became  transfigured  for 
him.  A  drab  pair  sitting  side  by  side  on  the  grass  below 
him  were  Daphnis  and  Chloe.  Figures  on  a  distant  seat 
were  Paolo  and  Francesca,  or  Abelard  and  H61oise,  or 
what  others  you  may  choose  to  think  of  —  so  only,  that 
they  be  fast  in  the  divine  coils.  A  young  artilleryman, 
really  brave  and  beautiful  in  clean  outline  and  yellow 
braid,  and  his  exuberant  mate  (though  she,  to  be  sure,  must 
needs  wear  red  silk  gloves!)  were  as  gods. 

He  looked  round.  What  had  happened  to  him?  There 
were  many  lovers  if  you  set  yourself  to  look  —  as  many  as 
in  any  sylvan  painting  by  Fragonard  or  Watteau.  Here 
were  glades,  lawns,  bowers,  to  people,  as  one  or  other  would 
have  peopled  them,  with  dallying  figures,  with  figures 
playing  love's  eternal  game.  The  world  was  full  of  lovers 
and  he  had  only  just  found  that  out.  Love  was  everywhere. 
Birds  kissing  in  the  air  should  have  hovered  under  droop- 
ing trees,  —  doves,  swallows.  The  music  of  hidden  min- 
strels should  have  been  audible;  the  boy-god  himself  have 
been  visible.  The  spirit  of  these  things  and  beings  was 


CHRISTOPHER  207 

abroad,  was  to  be  perceived,  felt.    What,  in  truth,  had 
happened  to  him?  What? 

It  was  nothing  more  romantic  than  the  promptings  of 
a  very  healthy  young  appetite  that  in  the  end  took  Christ- 
opher from  the  scene  of  his  afternoon's  dreamings.  By 
that  time  the  first  cause  of  all  of  them  was  well  on  her  un- 
known way;  and  his  mother  and  Fatima,  it  is  probable, 
sat  under  the  cedars  at  Herrickswood  at  tea  with  his  grand- 
mother. 

Flying  thoughts  went  out  from  Christopher  in  both  di- 
rections. He  stretched  himself  and  went  back  to  the  town. 

It  took  him  some  time  to  find  a  place  at  which,  after 
his  exaltations,  he  cared  to  have  tea,  but  at  length  he  came 
upon  a  baker's  shop  the  look  of  which  pleased  him,  and  in 
a  spick-and-span  little  parlour,  which  he  had  to  himself, 
with  a  delicious  atmosphere  of  hot  bread,  he  ate  a  clean 
and  agreeable  and  very  hearty  meal.  A  matronly  woman, 
as  clean  and  agreeable  as  the  sweet-smelling  shop  over 
which  she  presided,  attended  upon  him. 

He  went  back  to  London  the  richer  for  a  strange  day. 

"And  where's  that  boy  of  yours  going?"  Christopher's 
grandmother  was  saying. 

The  tea-table  was  spread  under  the  cedars  as  he  had 
supposed,  and  the  three  were  grouped  about  it  as  he  had 
pictured  them. 

With  advancing  years  old  Mrs.  Herrick  had  relaxed 
none  of  her  hold  upon  life.  She  did  not,  indeed,  Anne  was 
thinking,  look  very  different  from  the  Mrs.  Herrick  who, 
so  long  ago  now,  had  ushered  the  arriving  Christopher 
and  herself  into  the  sitting-room  where  the  velvet  glove 
hung  over  the  coal  box,  there,  at  the  tea-hour,  —  Herricks- 
wood being  amongst  the  last  of  the  old-fashioned  houses 
to  abandon  the  tray  with  the  glasses  and  decanters,  —  to 
regale  them  with  cake  and  wine. 

"  I  don't  think  he  knows  himself.  He  goes  with  a  friend 


208  CHRISTOPHER 

—  a  young  Harringay.  I  'm  to  get  post-cards  to  tell  me 
their  movements." 

"Well,  you  give  him  a  free  hand.  I  was  always  afraid 
for  you  that  you  might  want  to  keep  an  eye  on  him." 

"Ancebel's  father  says  give  boys  their  heads." 

"Ancebel's  father  knows,"  said  Mrs.  Herrick. 

"But  Christopher  is  n't  a  boy,"  said  Fatima. 

"Give  men  their  heads,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Herrick,  smil- 
ing. " It's  precisely  the  same  thing." 

No,  she  was  n't  changed.  She  looked  at  Fatima  now 
much  as  she  used  to  look  at  Christopher. 

"You  look  very  wise,  Ancebel-Fatima,  over  there  with 
your  tea-cup,  very  wise,  indeed,  you  look,"  and  turned 
to  Fatima's  mother.  "But  I  wonder  whether  if  it  had  n't 
been  for  her  wise  old  grandmother-in-law,  she'd  be  in 
existence  this  minute  to  sit  there  and  set  us  all  right." 

Fatima  opened  wide  eyes  wider. 

"I  wonder,"  Anne  said,  smiling. 

"  I  always  consider  that  I  made  up  the  match  between 
you  and  her  father,"  Mrs.  Herrick  said. 

No,  she  was  n't  changed.  If  any  one  was,  Anne  was 
thinking,  it  was  Christopher's  contented  mother.  She 
smiled  happily. 

Mrs.  Herrick  had  not  finished. 

"  He  '11  be  falling  in  love  on  his  own  account  one  of  these 
days,"  she  said,"  and  then  you'll  be  by  the  ears,  my 
dear." 

Thus  the  trio  under  the  cedars  at  Herrickswood. 

Christopher  went  back  to  London  by  train.  He  found 
his  friend  Harringay  waiting  for  him  at  his  rooms,  and  him- 
self somewhat  at  a  loss  to  account  for  the  way  in  which  he 
had  spent  his  day.  It  had  all  seemed  so  natural  at  the  time, 
but  how  to  explain?  He,  who  generally  welcomed  the  com- 
panionship of  his  chosen  friends,  and  was  delighted  to  see 
this  particular  one  now,  had  for  once  not  wanted  any  one 
with  him.  Why?  Face  to  face  with  the  question,  which  yet 


CHRISTOPHER  109 

was  not  put  to  him,  he  did  not  know.  So,  to  Harringay's 
"I'd  have  come  with  you  if  I'd  known,"  he  gave  but  a 
lame  "I  did  n't  know  I  was  going  myself  till  I  went." 

Harringay  considered  this,  tried  it  with  his  eyelids. 

"Why  Greenwich?"  he  said  then. 

"Why  not?"  said  Christopher  —  "since  the  steamers 
went  there." 

But  in  his  heart  he  knew  then  why  Greenwich. 

"You  are  a  chap,"  said  Harringay. 

"It  was  also  the  only  place  that  I  could  think  of  at  the 
moment.  And  yes  —  I  remember  —  the  man  in  the  ticket- 
office  suggested  it."  Even  to  himself  he  seemed  like  one 
who  is  inventing  as  he  proceeds.  Yet  he  was  not  inventing. 
"After  all,"  he  said,  "is  n't  this  rather  the  spirit  in  which 
we're  starting  off  the  day  after  to-morrow?" 

Harringay  could  only  say  again,  "Well,  you  are  a  chap." 
And,  "Upon  my  soul,  you  know,  you  are/"  —  which  may 
or  may  not  have  meant  anything.  Nor  could  Christopher 
help  him. 

"You  forgot,  I  suppose,"  Harringay  said  at  last,  "that 
we  were  by  way  of  settling  some  sort  of  a  scheme  to- 
day?" 

Christopher  beamed  on  him. 

"We'll  do  that  this  evening.  We'll  dine  somewhere  and 
go  to  something  and  talk  it  all  over." 

"You  are!"  said  Harringay,  but  he  agreed. 

He  went  off  to  dress  then,  and  by  the  time  he  came  back 
Christopher  was  ready  and  waiting  for  him. 

Two  very  immaculate  young  Englishmen  were  they  who 
emerged  presently  from  the  sedate  house  in  Jermyn  Street 
where  Christopher  lodged,  and  who  stepped  into  the  han- 
som which  was  called  for  them.  It  pleased  them  to  observe 
the  extreme  smartness  of  its  appointments,  the  flower  in 
the  driver's  coat,  his  deference  as  he  stood  up  to  lift  the 
reins  over  their  hats  as  they  got  in.  His  "Where  to,  gentle- 
men?" through  the  trap,  told  them  pleasantly  what  bucks 
they  were.  They  felt,  as  if  he  had  told  them  so,  that  such 


2io  CHRISTOPHER 

splendid  young  fares  did  him  credit,  and  graced  even  the 
last  cry  in  hansoms. 

They  dined  at  a  restaurant  in  the  Strand,  and  took  the 
waiter's  advice  over  the  wine-list. 

"If  I  might  venture  to  suggest,"  he  said,  and  pointed 
with  a  respectful  forefinger. 

Chateau  So-and-so,  to  be  sure,  was  further  down  the 
inverted  tariff  than  either  of  the  diners  had  intended  to  go. 

"Rather  a  rook,  isn't  it,  for  claret?"  said  Harringay. 
"What  about  Saint-Julien  or  Saint-Estephe?" 

"I  thought  with  the  dishes  you've  ordered,  sir — " 

"All  right,"  said  Christopher. 

"Very  weak  of  you,"  said  Harringay  afterwards.  Aloud, 
in  a  brave  effort  to  recover  something  of  self-respect  for 
both  of  them,  he  said,  "You'll  see  to  the  temperature." 

"Rely  upon  me,  sir." 

Came  the  wine  in  a  cradle.  On  less  distinguished  tables 
the  Saint-Juliens  and  Saint-Est£phes  of  other  diners  stood 
vulgarly  upright.  On  theirs  Chateau  So-and-So,  like  some 
disdainful  woman,  lay  at  elegant  ease,  and,  her  mouth 
having  been  wiped  for  her  by  the  waiter's  reverent  napkin, 
could  almost  be  heard  to  give  voice  to  the  Tush  of  her  order. 
They  were  just  the  least  little  bit  in  awe  of  the  recumbent 
bottle,  whose  eye,  they  both  felt,  was  upon  them.  Would 
they  lose  their  heads? 

Harringay  said,  "Jolly  good,"  but  did  not  hold  his  glass 
to  his  nose  or  the  light,  or  otherwise  behave  ridiculously; 
and  Christopher  managed  to  affect  unconcern,  tempered 
(in  deference  to  the  attitude  of  the  exacting  bottle)  with 
appreciation.  All  was  well.  They  rose  in  their  own  esti- 
mation and  were  happy.  The  waiters  buzzed  about  them, 
waved  dishes  to  them  before  carving  or  helping,  hung  on 
their  orders  or  anticipated  them.  They  were  grown  up 
and  young,  too,  to  some  purpose. 

"Another  bottle,"  said  Harringay. 

"Half  bottle,"  said  Christopher. 

"  If  you  like,"  said  Harringay,  "though  I  think  we  should 


CHRISTOPHER  211 

have  been  good  for  a  bottle."   He  turned  to  the  waiter. 
"The  temperature  was  just  right." 
"I  thank  you,  sir." 

Less  than  ever  was  the  earlier  part  of  the  day  to  be  ac- 
counted for.  Reviewing  it  from  even  the  trifling  distance 
of  the  few  intervening  hours  Christopher  found  it  difficult  to 
account  for,  even  to  himself.  Had  he  been  to  Greenwich 
at  all?  Or,  more  exactly,  was  it  really  he  who  had  been 
there?  The  whole  thing  was  more  like  a  dream.  Even  the 
lily-white  maid,  as  he  strove  to  recall  her,  was  elusive  and 
misty  and  intangible  as  the  recollection  of  a  dream.  And 
"lily-white"  — what  word  was  this?  Where  had  it  come 
from?  From  what  old  forgotten  ballad  had  it  strayed? 
Yet  without  once  speaking  it,  all  day  long  he  had  been 
applying  it,  as  if  it  were  the  most  ordinary  in  the  world, 
and  as  if  to  feel  a  need  of  it  had  in  itself  been  most  natural. 
It  had  sprung,  indeed,  to  his  need  of  what  should  express 
his  thought.  What  was  she  if  not  lily-white?  And  —  he 
could  smile  —  what  was  she,  what  but  the  veriest  stranger, 
that  is,  if  she  were ! 

He  looked  at  Chateau  So-and-So  and  smiled. 

The  pleasant  dinner  proceeded.  They  came  at  length 
to  the  coffee  and  liqueurs. 

"And  where  are  we  going?"  said  Harringay  as  he  lit  a 
cigarette.  It  was  what  Christopher's  grandmother  had 
been  asking  his  mother  at  Herrickswood,  and  the  ostensible 
reason  for  the  dinner. 

Earlier  in  the  day  Christopher  would  have  known  what 
to  say:  "Everywhere.  From  place  to  place.  Everywhere" 
—  with  a  mental  reserve  of  "Till  we  find  her." 

Now  he  only  said,  "Anywhere  you  like,  old  Harringay. 
I  put  myself  into  your  hands,  and  at  your  absolute  dis- 
posal, for  three  weeks." 

"That's  all  jolly  fine,  but  we  start  the  day  after  to- 
morrow, and  we've  got  to  take  tickets  for  somewhere." 


212  CHRISTOPHER 

"Where  is  there?"  said  Christopher. 

They  sent  for  a  foreign  Bradshaw,  and  when  it  had  come 
pored  over  it,  their  young  heads  touching;  or  with  the  "I 
tell  you  what's"  and  "/  know's"  and  "Here,  give  it  to 
me's"  of  sudden  inspiration,  took  it  one  from  the  other. 

They  began  a  process  of  selection  by  exhaustion,  which 
should  have  been  easy,  but  appeared  to  bring  them  no 
nearer  to  a  decision.  It  was  too  hot  for  Italy;  for  Spain; 
the  South  generally  —  most  of  Europe  could  be  barred  out 
at  a  stroke.  Why,  Harringay  said,  a  circle  had  only  to  be 
described  and  subjected  to  shrinkage.  But  Christopher 
did  not  stick  to  the  plan  for  plans. 

Then  it  was  time  to  pay  their  bill  —  stiffer,  a  little,  than 
they  had  intended,  thanks  to  Chateau  So-and-So  —  and 
to  proceed  with  their  evening;  and  nothing  was  settled. 
Christopher  laughed. 

Truly  it  was  in  the  spirit  of  his  afternoon's  jaunt  that 
they  were  going  on  theirs. 


CHAPTER  IV 

BUT  in  the  night  Christopher  woke  —  the  fever  was  upon 
him  once  more,  the  heart-hunger  with  the  spell.  It  was  not 
that  he  had  recaptured  the  vision,  but  rather  that  the  vision 
had  recaptured  him.  It  was  now  the  evening  which  seemed 
unreal  —  Harringay,  the  restaurant,  Chateau  So-and-So, 
the  music-hall  .  .  . 

He  lay  on  his  back  looking  up  into  the  darkness.  Dark- 
ness, somewhere,  enveloped  her  also.  He  wished  he  could 
know  that  she  too  was  awake.  He  would  wake  her.  Vague 
memories,  inconsequently  as  it  seemed,  were  stirring  in  him. 

The  darkness  made  rings.  He  looked  up  into  it  strain- 
ing. He  would  call  a  face  out  of  it,  or  a  voice.  It  would 
open  presently  and  show  him  eyes  looking  into  his,  or  with 
his  outward  ears  he  would  hear  his  name  spoken.  Christ- 
opher! But  he  had  only  spoken  it  —  or  not  spoken  it  — 
himself,  and  the  ringed  darkness  was  empty. 

He  had  gone  to  sleep  to  the  hum  and  rumble  of  mid- 
night, and  had  wakened  to  the  detached  sounds  of  the 
smaller  hours.  He  remembered  Ebury  Street,  the  drip  of 
the  lodging-house  cistern,  and  then,  quite  suddenly,  some 
one  unconnected  with  either.  From  this  one  he  turned  his 
thoughts  away. 

Then  broad  awake  in  the  silent  house,  and  thoughts, 
with  one  through  all  of  them,  pressing  upon  him,  he  seemed 
at  the  mercy  of  sudden  clear-seeing.  Everything  that  was 
happening  in  London  this  night  appeared  to  make  itself 
known  to  him.  He  had  to  lie  still  and  to  see.  Beautiful 
and  wonderful  things,  but  horrible  things  also,  were  hap- 
pening in  the  darkness:  sacraments  of  love;  crownings, 
fulfilments,  with  travesties  of  such  rites  and  even  horrors 
unspeakable;  he  knew  of  them  all.  Sleepings  (He  giveth 


214  CHRISTOPHER 

his  beloved  sleep),  and  other  sleepings;  waitings,  vigils; 
he  knew  of  these.  He  knew  of  fevers  too,  tossings,  groan- 
ings;  of  the  shaded  candle  in  the  silent  room;  the  click  of 
the  medicine  bottle  against  the  glass;  the  tickings  of  many 
clocks  on  waking  ears.  He  knew  of  ugly  revellings,  uglier 
laughter,  tears;  of  sweatings,  —  Songs  of  the  Shirt;  —  of 
trampings,  meaningless  wanderings.  He  knew  of  lonely 
figures  slinking  through  by-streets,  saw  the  broken  boot 
and  the  huddle  of  shapeless  rags,  heard  the  voice  of  the 
outcast  who  murmurs  to  himself.  He  saw  into  prisons, 
workhouses,  hospitals;  a  murderer  would  hang  in  the 
morning ;  the  hands  of  an  old  woman  plucked  at  the  coun- 
terpane on  her  bed ;  a  boy  swathed  in  bandages  kept  up  a 
low  wordless  moaning.  He  saw  night-watchmen  in  empty 
buildings;  barges  on  silent  canals;  the  river;  played  the 
sunset,  tasted  thunder,  listened  to  still  ink  and  the  song 
of  the  stars! 

And  suddenly  he  was  back  at  Boulogne,  felt  breezes 
with  the  smell  of  seaweed  in  them,  saw  the  flapping  of  the 
sou 'westers  and  the  wooden  spades,  and  the  yellow  oilskin 
coats,  outside  a  shop  which  he  knew  as  the  Calefon  Shop 
on  the  Port,  and  the  fluttering  of  a  blue  veil  which  was 
not  his  mother's.  The  veil  fluttered  before  him  along  the 
Rue  de  1'Ecu,  or  up  the  Grande  Rue;  or  down  the  Pier, 
past  the  little  restaurant  midway,  where  the  prawns  and 
lobsters  were  displayed,  and  the  lifeboat  house;  or  along 
the  Terrace  where  the  sand  was  blown  into  little  heaps, 
or  on  the  Sands  themselves.  The  veil  fluttered  on  the  Espla- 
nade, he  caught  glimpses  of  it  upon  the  Ramparts,  it  was 
not  absent  from  the  aisles  of  the  Cathedral  or  those  of  the 
Church  of  Saint  Nicolas.  It  eluded  him,  yet  shewed  him 
the  town.  He  had  fifty  impressions  of  forgotten  things  by 
reason  of  it:  sand  of  the  floor  of  an  estaminet  —  sand, 
always  sand  at  Boulogne;  the  sudden  sound  and  smell  of 
savoury  frying;  the  pattern  of  a  white  cap;  butter  on  a 
cabbage  leaf;  the  way  a  hand  held  a  purse,  or  a  hand  dived 
into  the  pocket  of  an  apron  heavy  with  copper  money; 


CHRISTOPHER  215 

sounds  and  sights  of  the  fish-market:  clamours  of  auction; 
the  pairing  of  soles ;  the  slap  and  flap  of  great  flat  fish  upon 
stone ;  the  look  of  gold  rings  in  ears  or  on  scaly  fingers.  — 
The  veil  was  not  his  mother's.  He  did  not  know  it  for 
anybody's.  Boulogne  was  with  him  by  reason  of  it  none 
the  less;  not  it,  even,  by  reason  of  Boulogne.  Sometime  or 
other  he  must  have  seen  such  a  veil  .  .  .  And  then  he  was 
back  with  lily-whiteness,  back  with  the  disturbance  of  his 
senses.  It  was  another  hour  before  he  slept. 

Morning!  and,  as  when  he  was  a  child  and  a  child's 
dreams  had  possessed  him,  the  fatigues  of  the  restless  night 
were  forgotten  in  the  interest  of  a  new  day. 

Harringay  was  round  at  his  rooms  while  he  was  yet  in 
his  bath. 

"  I  'm  going  to  take  you  to  Cook's  this  morning." 

But  it  was  Christopher  who  spoke  —  before  Harringay 
had  time  to  do  more  than  bang  upon  the  door  of  the  bath- 
room, from  behind  which  came  the  sound  of  the  singings 
and  splashings. 

"Well,  that's  what  I  came  for  —  to  take  you  there." 

Christopher  was  heard  to  chuckle. 

"We'll  take  each  other  then." 

"Something's  got  to  be  settled." 

"Something  has  been,  something  is." 

"I  want  to  go  to  Trouville,"  said  Harringay. 

"We'll  talk  about  that  at  breakfast." 

"We  talked  about  things  at  dinner." 

"Tell  them  to  do  plenty  of  bacon,"  said  Christopher. 

Harringay  went  into  the  sitting-room  and  rang. 

"I  say,"  Christopher  heard  him  say  presently,  "I'm 
coming  to  breakfast." 

"Very  good,  sir." 

"Do  plenty  of  bacon." 

But  he  had  his  relapse.  She  was  not  at  Homburg, 
whither  they  went  first,  nor  at  any  of  the  "likely"  places. 


216  CHRISTOPHER 

Harringay  was  to  remember  this  trip  afterwards  as  a  curi- 
ously purposeless  wandering.  It  was  anything  but  purpose- 
less if  he  had  known  it.  For  once,  however,  he  was  not  in 
Christopher's  confidence. 

"I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  you,"  he  said 
when  they  left  Wiesbaden  for  Aix-la-Chapelle. 

"Neither  do  I,"  said  Christopher.  He  did  not  even  say, 
"Nothing's  the  matter,"  with  "What  should  be?"  for  a 
rider. 

Harringay  turned  speculative  eyes  upon  him.  This  some- 
how was  a  new  or,  at  least,  an  unfamiliar  Christopher. 

"I  thought  Homburg  all  right,  you  know,"  he  said, 
rather  sorely.  "I  liked  it.  And  one  was  just  getting  to 
know  people,  and  we  had  n't  half  seen  what  there  was  to  see 
about  there.  And  I  thought  you  liked  tennis  yourself. 
Why,  it  was  you  who  suggested  Homburg." 

"I  know,"  said  Christopher.  He  laughed  —  at  himself! 
but  Harringay  did  not  observe  the  direction  of  his  laughter 
and  stuck  to  the  point.  It  was  all  very  well,  he  said  —  all 
very  well. 

Christopher  was  wishing  for  his  stepfather.  John  Hem- 
ming would  have  known  where  people  did  go  to  at  that 
time  of  year.  Christopher  could  not  have  told  him,  of 
course,  —  could  not,  that  is,  have  taken  him  into  his  lily- 
white  confidence  any  more  than  he  could  take  Harringay. 
But  without  doing  this  he  might  at  least  have  found  out 
what  he  wanted  so  badly  to  know.  He  had  never  before 
felt  so  ignorant  of  the  world's  doings.  Where  did  people 
go  to  in  August —  "abroad"? 

Aix-la-Chapelle  he  drew  blank. 

"Where's  Baden-Baden?"  he  said. 

"These  are  all  Cures,"  said  Harringay  —  "baths  and 
waters.  Of  course  Homburg  is  in  a  way,  but  that 's  differ- 
ent. People  go  there.  There  used  to  be  Tables.  Why 
Wiesbaden,  for  instance,  and  Aix?  There's  Heidelberg  if 
we  want  to  see  places,  or  Nuremberg  —  dozens  of  'em. 
Why  these  Cures?  You  don't  want  a  cure?" 


CHRISTOPHER  217 

Christopher  was  n't  so  sure.  What  he  did  know  was  that 
her  father  had  looked  the  sort  of  man  who  would  be  ordered 
Waters  and  Baths. 

"There's  Vichy  and  Aix-les-Bains,"  Harringay  was 
suggesting,  "if  you  do." 

Christopher  went  on  a  new  tack. 

"You  said  something  about  Trouville,  did  n't  you?" 

"That  was  when  we  were  starting.  One  had  to  suggest 
something.  First,  you  won't  start  —  settle  about  starting, 
anyway ;  and  then  you  won't  stop  —  stop  still,  I  mean,  let 
well  alone.  You  know.  What  was  wrong  with  Homburg? 
I  liked  Homburg." 

"Would  you  care  to  go  back  there?" 

After  all,  she  might  have  arrived  since  they  left.  Her 
father  looked  like  a  man  who  would  break  journeys  freely. 
With  valets  and  maids,  what  were  the  breakings  of  jour- 
neys? It  was  only  when  you  had  to  pack  for  yourself,  take 
your  own  tickets,  see  to  your  luggage  at  stations,  find  your 
own  places  in  trains,  that  you  wanted  to  get  to  your 
journey's  end.  With  everything  made  smooth  for  you, 
you  rested  here  and  there,  as  inclination  moved  you. 

"Yes,"  said  Harringay,  "I  shouldn't  at  all  mind.  I 
should  rather  like  to  see  those  girls  again  at  the  Springs, 
filling  six  glasses  in  each  hand  —  or  was  it  twelve?  Hom- 
burg was  n't  half  bad.  I  liked  Homburg." 

Harringay's  catch-phrase  —  his  tag  for  the  moment, 
his  parrot-cry! 

But  Christopher,  who  had  not  seen  Her  at  Homburg, 
could  not  see  her  there.  He  had  seen  slim  girls  there,  white 
girls,  and  once,  with  a  leap  of  his  pulses,  he  had  fancied 
.  .  .  !  There  was  hardly  any  resemblance  when  he  came 
near. 

Harringay  —  was  it  possible?  —  was  saying  again,  "I 
liked  Homburg." 

"What  about  Trouville?"  said  Christopher. 

"  I  don't  know  how  one  gets  there  from  here.  It  would 
mean  more  Bradshaw." 


2i8  CHRISTOPHER 

'But  what's  it  like?" 
'There's  bathing  there/' 

'People  go?" 
'Lord,  yes." 

'English  people?" 

'Heaps." 

'We '11  go." 

You  could  n't  reason  with  madmen.  Harringay  con- 
tented himself  with  repeating  his  warning. 

"Bradshaw,"  he  said.  "Foreign  Bradshaw!  I  leave  it 
to  you." 

The  journey  was  not  very  difficult.  The  intelligent  man 
in  the  bureau  of  their  hotel  managed  all  that  for  them. 
Their  itinerary  was  neatly  made  out  on  half  a  sheet  of 
note-paper. 

"  You  shange  only  where  I  mark.  I  make  a  cross,  crosses, 
shange.  It  is  quite  easy,  you  find." 

But  neither  was  she  at  Trouville.  Here  were  plenty 
of  slim  white  maids  to  set  your  pulses  beating  for  a  breath- 
less moment,  but  none  of  them  was  she.  You  had  only  to 
get  near  enough  to  see.  How  could  you  have  imagined  even 
for  that  trembling  moment?  How  could  you  have  fancied 
even  a  superficial  resemblance  in  this  one  or  that  to  the 
lady  of  your  dreams? 

Unlikely  that  she  was  in  Italy.  Unlikely  that  she  was  in 
Spain.  He  had  left  Germany  behind,  and  he  was  sure  she 
was  there.  At  some  quiet  place  in  the  Black  Forest,  perhaps, 
some  little  hidden  place.  He  could  see  her  with  books  .  .  . 

Of  course  she  was  n't  at  Trouville.  Here  were  mon- 
daines,  demi-mondaines,  actresses.  He  could  not  see  her 
amongst  these,  —  in  a  way,  —  though,  in  a  way,  he  could. 
She  was  not  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood  as  these,  but  some- 
thing that  they  (some  of  them)  had,  she  had;  or  something 
that  she  had,  they  had,  in  varying  degrees.  This  was  the 
extraordinary  look  of  exquisite  workmanship,  of  delicacy  of 
texture,  of  fineness  and  refinement.  She,  with  some  of  them, 
seemed  the  last  word,  made  flesh,  of  a  late  civilization. 


CHRISTOPHER  219 

He  was  sure  she  was  in  Germany.  As  he  could  see  her 
with  books,  so  could  he  now  picture  the  sort  of  place  in 
which  he  should  have  sought  her.  Useless  to  have  looked 
for  her  in  the  highways.  She  was  on  the  hill-tops,  in  the 
woods,  by  the  streams  .  .  . 

And  then,  as  momentarily  before,  but  now  for  an  ap- 
preciable period,  he  lost  the  vision  completely.  He  became, 
for  Harringay's  preoccupied  fellow-traveller,  his  satisfying 
comrade  and  friend.  He  had  slipped  from  under  a  spell, 
thrown  it  off  when  the  fairy  who  had  laid  it  upon  him  was 
sleeping  or  hunting  or  was  otherwise  occupied  —  not  look- 
ing, anyway.  He  regained  his  lightness  of  heart;  bathed, 
swam,  made  friends  (in  the  water  and  out  of  it) ;  did  not 
want  to  leave  Trouville.  This,  though  there  had  been  talk 
of  Ostend,  Dieppe,  Bruges;  of  Switzerland;  tentatively, 
even,  of  Germany  again. 

"You  are  a  chap,"  said  Harringay. 

Christopher  did  not  dispute  it.  He  knew  that  he  was  — 
or  that  he  had  been,  at  least,  for  the  last  few  weeks. 

"It  was  sea-air  I  wanted  —  the  sea." 

He  paused  upon  that.  The  sea?  He  thought  that  he  al- 
ways did  want  the  sea.  Not  quite  this  sort  of  sea,  perhaps, 
with  stripped  or  striped  men  and  decked  women  bathing 
in  it,  laughing,  talking,  splashing  each  other;  pretending 
to  teach  each  other  to  swim.  Not  quite  this  sort  of  sea. 
The  real  sea,  not  a  sea  in  leading-strings;  a  frilled  and 
tuckered  sea ;  a  sea  dressed  up  for  a  party  and  dancing  to 
a  band.  The  real  sea  that  he  belonged  to;  the  sea  which 
had  given  him  birth  as  actually  as  his  own  mother.  That 
sea  he  thought  he  wanted  always  —  the  sea  men  go  down 
to  in  ships. 

And  upon  this  thought,  too,  he  paused.  It  was  allied 
in  some  dangerous  way  to  the  thoughts  which  had  been 
disturbing  him.  Now  that  he  had  regained  possession  of 
himself,  he  did  not  wish  quickly  to  lose  it.  He  turned 
from  the  thought  of  the  sea. 


CHAPTER  V 

BUT  he  had  not  been  wrong.  For  weal  or  for  woe  he  was  to 
meet  her.  Not  now.  Not  "abroad"  at  all.  He  met  her  in 
London. 

Much  water  had  run  under  the  bridges  by  then.  It  was 
winter.  He  had  forgotten  —  not  all  about  her,  for  that 
could  not  have  been  nor  could  ever  be,  but  he  had  forgot- 
ten the  amazing  sensations  and  emotions  which  the  sight  of 
her  had  caused  him,  and  he  had  certainly  ceased  to  think 
of  her.  She  was  in  her  place  none  the  less  in  his  mind,  like 
those  vivid  impressions  of  his  childhood  which  no  passage 
of  time  could  really  efface,  and  it  needed  but  the  sudden 
sight  of  her  to  tell  him  that  what  seemed  dead  had  only 
been  sleeping. 

He  met  her  at  a  dinner-party  given  by  a  Mrs.  Constaple 
in  Grosvenor  Street  —  a  dinner-party  to  which  he  had  not 
particularly  wanted  to  go.  The  pull  was  another  way. 
The  rest  of  the  family,  his  mother  and  John  Hemming 
and  Ancebel-Fatima,  were  going  to  the  pantomime  at 
Drury  Lane  that  night,  and  he  would  have  liked  to  be 
going  with  them. 

Fatima  said,  "What  did  you  want  to  go  and  accept 
stupid  invitations  to  dinner  for?" 

That,  Christopher  agreed,  was  just  It;  why  —  of  his 
own  free  will,  if  you  please!  —  must  he  needs  so  have 
bound  himself? 

"Weeks  and  weeks  beforehand,  too,"  said  Fatima. 

That,  said  Christopher,  was  so  much  the  more  It  — 
the  point,  nay,  the  root  of  his  grievance.  There  was  no- 
thing so  unfair  as  a  long  invitation. 

They  were  staying  in  London  —  Ebury  Street,  even!  — • 
for  Fatima's  holidays,  just  as  his  mother  and  he  had  once 
long  ago  stayed  in  London  for  part  of  his  own.  They  were 


CHRISTOPHER  221 

doing  much  the  same  things.  John  Hemming  often  re- 
membered. So  did  Anne. 

Christopher,  dressing  for  his  dinner-party,  heard  the 
cab  drive  off;  finished  dressing,  and  presently  came  down- 
stairs. 

Trimmer,  helping  him  on  with  his  coat,  gave  him  a 
motherly  glance  of  approval.  He  was  her  young  gentleman 
as  his  mother  was  her  lady.  It  was  for  his  sake  and  hers, 
had  either  of  them  known  it  (or  Trimmer  herself  even!), 
that  a  piano-tuner  was  unconsoled. 

She  went  to  the  hall  door  with  him  to  whistle  for  his 
hansom. 

The  house  where  they  had  lodged  was  nearly  opposite. 
It  had  changed  hands  more  than  once  since  the  days  which 
were  spoken  of  now  as  the  old  days,  and  had  recently  been 
painted.  It  showed  a  clean  face. 

"I  wonder  whether  the  cistern  still  drips,"  he  said, 
looking,  not  in  the  direction  of  the  subject  of  his  specula- 
tion, but  up  the  street  for  the  cab  which  was  not  in  sight. 

Trimmer  shook  her  head.  She  did  not  need  to  be  told 
what  he  was  talking  about. 

"The  red  blinds  are  new  too,"  she  said.  "They  used  to 
be  yellow  —  at  least,  they  had  been  yellow  once.  They 
were  London  colour  when  we  knew  them.  He's  dead,  I 
hear,  and  she's  married  again.  Settled  at  Buxton,  I'm 
told.  Do  you  remember  the  toy  you  left  there,  sir?  She'd 
kept  it  for  you,  and  you  did  n't  like  it  when  I  brought  it 
to  you.  You  got  so  red,  Mr.  Christopher." 

"Did  I?"  said  Christopher,  smiling.  "Whistle  again, 
will  you?" 

"But  you  wouldn't  say  anything,"  said  Trimmer, 
when  she  had  whistled,  -  -"not  you.  You'd  outgrown 
it,  but  you'd  rather  have  died  than  let  any  one  see.  I 
don't  know  where  all  the  cabs  have  got  to.  Do  you  know 
something  else,  sir?" 

"What's  that?" 

"Your  mamma's  got  it  still." 


222  CHRISTOPHER 

Christopher  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"She  has  n't  outgrown  it.  It's  in  her  wardrobe  at  home 
this  minute."  Trimmer  paused,  smiling  at  some  thought. 
"There 's  one  coming  now,  sir.  No,  that 's  engaged.  What 's 
he  say?  Oh,  he'll  send  one.  Yes,  I  came  upon  it  one  day  — 
some  years  ago  now.  I  knew  it  in  a  minute.  Little  millers, 
it  was,  carrying  sacks  up  into  a  mill.  /  knew.  But  I  said, 
'Shall  I  give  this  to  Miss  Ancebel?'  just  to  see  what  she'd 
say.  She  said,  '  No,  Trimmer.  Put  it  back  where  it  was.' " 
Trimmer  smiled  again  and  looked  at  the  whistle  in  her 
hand.  "Shall  I  go  to  the  corner,  sir?" 

"He'll  send  one,  all  right." 

He  looked  over  at  the  house  opposite.  Trimmer  looked 
too. 

"That  all  seems  yesterday,"  she  said,  jerking  her  head 
at  it. 

It  was  an  open  moment  for  Trimmer  and  for  Christopher. 
Both  of  them  knew  it. 

"We  went  to  pantomimes,  did  n't  we?" 

"Did  we  not,  sir?" 

He  was  a  little  boy  again  for  her.  A  little  boy  himself, 
it  seemed  also! 

"This  rotten  dinner-party,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  you'll  enjoy  it  when  you  get  there.  Here's  your 
hansom,  sir." 

"I'm  quite  sure  I  shan't,  old  Trimmer.  I  never  felt 
so  disinclined  to  go  to  anything." 

"Then  you  may  be  quite  sure  you  will,"  said  Trimmer. 

She  watched  the  cab  till  it  disappeared  at  the  corner,  and 
then,  with  a  brief  glance  up  and  down  the  street  (which 
she  consciously  permitted  herself),  and  a  longer  look  at  the 
house  that  raised  so  many  memories  in  her,  she  sighed, 
shut  the  door,  and  went  back  to  her  work. 

"He'll  enjoy  his  evening,  all  right,"  she  said  to  herself, 
smiling. 

Experience  had  taught  her  the  right  attitude  of  mind 
in  which  to  set  out  to  meet  pleasure.  But  she  sighed. 


CHRISTOPHER  223 

Christopher  was  late,  but  not  the  last.  His  hostess,  a 
friend  of  his  grandmother's,  received  him  cordially,  said 
it  was  very  cold,  and  that  the  room  was  too  hot,  but  one 
really  did  n't  know  how  to  manage,  did  one?  —  said, 
"Now,  let  me  see,"  and  consulted  her  husband's  list, 
pulling  at  the  same  moment  at  his  sleeve  with  a  "This  is 
Mr.  Herri ck,  dear."  She  then  forgot  all  about  Christopher, 
and  went  off,  the  list  in  her  hand,  to  some  one  the  other 
side  of  the  room. 

Christopher  found  himself  shaking  hands  with  an  elderly 
man  with  grey  whiskers,  who  said,  "Few  women  left  like 
your  grandmother.  Marvellous  woman.  Still  gets  about, 
does  she?  Why,  she  must  be  —  but  we  won't  go  into  that. 
Eats  well,  does  she?  Keeps  her  faculties?  Without  spec- 
tacles, you  say!  Can  she,  indeed?  Wonderful." 

The  room  had  the  unsettled  expectancy  that  precedes 
the  announcement  of  dinner.  People  stood  about  in  de- 
sultory little  groups.  A  sitting  woman,  craning  her  neck, 
talked  at  an  uncomfortable  angle  to  a  standing  man.  A 
couple  of  dowagers  sat  importantly  on  a  sofa.  There  was 
a  rattle  and  a  buzz  of  talk,  but  heads  were  turned  upon  any 
sign  of  movement  at  the  door.  One  of  the  dowagers  seemed 
to  be  talking  about  a  bathroom.  Christopher  longed  to  hear 
why  the  water  would  not  go  down  .  .  . 

"  It  was  hot  water,  too,"  he  heard  her  say,  and  the  other 
respond  that  hot  water  she  had  always  understood  was 
supposed  to  rise  to  the  top.  That,  you  might  be  Sure, 
was  the  Reason. 

He  answered  his  host.  Yes,  he  had  been  at  Herricks- 
wood  in  the  autumn.  His  grandmother  even  engaged  her 
own  keepers.  Marvellous!  But  he  strained  to  hear  what 
the  plumber  said. 

"  I  had  him  up  myself  and  I  showed  him  the  mark  with 
my  own  hands.  It  was  all  down  the  wall  of  the  little  room 
off  the  drawing-room  —  my  room,  if  you  remember.  We'd 
had  to  move  the  pictures,  as  it  was,  and  my  writing-table 
as  well.  I  said,  '  /  can't  be  expected  to  understand,'  I  said. 


224  CHRISTOPHER 

'  I  'm  not  a  plumber.'  I  think  I  had  him  there.  '  And,  what 's 
more,'  I  said  — " 

But  what  it  was  that  was  more,  Christopher  was  not  to 
hear.  There  were  further  arrivals  and  he  missed  a  large 
chunk.  When  he  could  listen  again  his  dowager  was  saying, 
"And  that's  why  I  went  to  Aix-lay-Bang  instead  of 
Scarborough." 

Some  one  spoke  to  the  host,  who  now  remembered  the 
list  which  his  wife  had  taken  out  of  his  hand  —  his  hands, 
even,  perhaps?  —  and  went  to  retrieve  it.  He  retrieved  the 
lady  herself,  but  did  not,  Christopher  saw,  succeed  in 
getting  the  list  from  her.  As  they  approached,  the  last 
guest,  a  Mr.  Heccadon,  was  announced  —  with  Dinner 
almost  indecently  tacked  on  to  his  name!  —  and  there  was 
a  general  movement,  a  relaxing  of  strained  attitudes,  an 
easing  of  tension. 

Mr.  Heccadon,  a  welcome  guest,  it  was  evident,  and 
a  recognised,  perhaps  a  privileged  offender,  shaking  hands 
with  his  hostess,  said  that  it  fell  to  him,  did  n't  it,  to  let 
dinner  loose  and  earn  every  one's  gratitude.  But  Mrs. 
Constaple  said  that  she  was  too  hungry  to  be  angry,  or 
too  angry  to  be  hungry,  she  no  longer  knew  which,  and 
that  he  was  to  hold  his  tongue  and  take  Geraldine  in, 
please,  and  sit  opposite  the  fire,  please,  and  be  off  with  him ! 

She  then  remembered  Christopher. 

"Oh,  I  never  told  you,  did  I?  And  I  don't  suppose  Jim 
did.  Let  me  think.  Yes,  of  course  — " 

The  procession  had  started.  He  was  led  through  it  to  the 
other  side  of  the  big  room. 

"Oh,  I've  made  a  mistake,"  he  was  not  surprised  to 
hear  her  say  midway.  "  I 've  muddled  things  up.  You  were 
to  have  taken  my  daughter,  and  Reggie  Heccadon  was  to 
have  taken  —  but  it  does  n't  matter." 

It  was  thus  that  it  happened.  Christopher  found  himself 
bowing  to  Lily-whiteness. 

The  passage  from  the  drawing-room,  across  a  wide  land- 


CHRISTOPHER  225 

ing,  down  the  gentle  declivity  of  imposing  stairs,  and 
across  a  stone  hall  to  the  dining-room,  was  made  in  a  dream. 
Christopher  had  observed  these  things  on  his  arrival.  He 
had  no  sense  of  them  now.  They  made  a  background  only 
to  whirling  thoughts.  It  is  to  be  supposed  that  the  pro- 
gress was  not  made  in  silence,  but  if  he  talked  he  had  no 
knowledge  of  what  he  said.  Nor  was  he  conscious  of  the 
sound  of  his  companion's  voice.  Yet  she,  too,  must  have 
spoken. 

He  was  seated  at  the  table  watching  her,  with  a  sort 
of  inward  vision,  as  she  drew  off  her  gloves,  before  he  came 
fully  to  a  sense  of  what  had  happened  to  him.  The  first 
thought  that  came  to  him  upon  that  was  that  he  did  not 
even  now  know  her  name.  The  scatter-brained  giver  of 
the  feast  had  not  spoken  it.  Trust  such  cursoriness,  such 
mental  fluffiness  as  hers  to  omit  the  one  thing  that  mat- 
tered! Let  her  introduce  Mr.  Herrick,  she  had  said,  and 
had  flown  to  the  arm  of  her  waiting  Personage,  leaving 
Christopher  to  take  his  bearings  as  best  he  might.  He  was 
conscious  now  of  a  feeling  of  irritation.  Yet  it  was  to  the 
very  qualities  which  irritated  him  —  by  which  even  the 
name  had  come  unwittingly  to  be  withheld  at  the  introduc- 
tion —  that  he  owed  his  present  astonishing  fortune.  If  the 
hostess  had  not  been  harum-scarum,  he  would  have  had 
Geraldine,  daughter  of  the  house,  to  partner,  and  she  be- 
side whom  he  now  sat  would  have  been  divided  from  him 
by  other  diners  and  almost  the  length  of  the  long  table. 

From  his  place  he  could  see  the  late-comer  and  "Ger- 
aldine" looking  in  his  direction.  Geraldine,  he  knew,  was 
pointing  out  to  her  cavalier  which  of  her  mother's  guests 
it  was  that  he  should  have  taken  in  to  dinner,  and  which 
of  them  it  was  who  should  have  fallen  to  her.  They  were 
laughing.  Mr.  Heccadon,  looking  up  the  table,  regretted 
the  exchange,  Christopher  fancied  jealously,  and  con- 
ceived an  odd  dislike  for  him ;  Geraldine,  he  believed  (mo- 
destly), did  not.  He  felt  grateful  to  Geraldine. 

The  gloves  were  off  now.    Christopher  thought  he  had 


226  CHRISTOPHER 

never  seen  such  beautiful  hands.  They  were  young,  slim, 
white;  of  lovely  workmanship  and  finish.  They  might  have 
"sat"  for  hands.  Such  hands  had  sat  for  hands  from  all 
time.  Botticelli  knew  them  —  most  of  the  early  Italian 
masters,  many  of  the  late.  Yet,  except  that,  in  addition 
to  their  exquisite  shape,  they  had  a  character  and  an  in- 
dividuality which  no  painter  of  the  seventeenth  century 
troubled  himself  to  allow  to  the  hands  he  painted,  it  was 
to  the  portraits  of  Vandyck,  or  even  Lely,  that  perhaps 
most  readily  you  would  have  gone  to  look  for  their  coun- 
terparts. But  the  perfect  hand  of  the  painters,  the  Hand 
Beautiful  of  convention,  lacked  subtleties  the  presence  of 
which  Christopher  recognised  in  the  hand  which  in  the 
trivial  conduct  of  the  moment  was  now  lifting  a  spoon. 
Thought  informed  it.  It  was  a  modern  hand  —  a  young, 
healthy  hand,  but  the  hand  essentially  of  an  age  "sicklied 
o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought."  The  wrists,  to  which  his 
eyes  travelled  now,  were  exceedingly  beautiful  also.  He 
had  not  dared  yet  to  let  his  eyes  rest  long  upon  the  face, 
lest  they  should  betray  him. 

Suddenly  the  whirling  in  his  brain  which  had  confused 
him  ceased.  He  seemed  at  the  same  moment  to  emerge 
from  clouds  which  had  confused  and  enmeshed  him.  Or 
it  was  as  if  he  had  sailed  into  smooth  out  of  troubled 
waters. 

"Tell  me  your  name,"  he  heard  himself  saying.  "I 
want  to  know  your  name." 

At  his  words,  but  perhaps  more  aptly  at  the  sound  of  his 
voice,  or  a  new  sound  in  it,  she  lifted  her  eyes  from  her 
plate  and  turned  to  him. 

"My  name?" 

The  eyes  which  were  unveiled  by  the  lifting  of  the  curved 
lids  were  blue,  but  very  dark. 

"  I  did  n't  hear  it.  I  don't  think  Mrs.  Constaple"  —  he 
looked  towards  their  hostess  —  "said  it.  In  fact,  I 'm  sure 
she  did  n't." 

There  was  an  answering  smile.    It  collected,  arranged, 


CHRISTOPHER  227 

and  docketed  the  lady.  It  was  as  if  she  had  said,  "She  is 
the  sort  of  person  who  would  n't.  You  could  n't  expect 
it.  One  name  is  as  much  as  she  would  ever  remember  at 
a  time."  She  did  not  say  this  in  words. 

He  waited. 

"I  heard  yours,"  she  said.  "I  wondered  whether  you 
were  a  descendant  of  the  poet.  I  looked  at  that"  —  she 
nodded  towards  the  little  slip  of  cardboard  in  front  of  his 
plate  —  "to  see  if  you  spelt  it  the  same  way." 

"I  do,  but  I'm  not,"  he  said. 

He  wished  that  he  could  have  said  that  he  was.  He  had 
often  wished  that,  but  never  so  much  as  now.  What  a  spot 
from  which  to  take  off!  If  he  could  have  said,  "The  man 
who  wrote  the  'Night-piece  to  Julia'  is  my  great,  great, 
great  ...  !" 

"But  I  should  n't  have  hated  Devonshire,"  he  said,  half 
to  himself,  following  out  a  thought  of  his  own. 

"Yes,  you  would,"  she  said  quietly. 

He  looked  at  her  —  if  he  could  be  said,  since  the  mists 
passed,  to  have  ceased  to  look  at  her.  He  believed  that  she 
changed  her  mind  about  what  she  had  meant  to  say  —  or 
changed  her  mind,  anyway,  about  saying  it. 

"Or  you  would  n't  have  been  Herrick." 

It  was  hedging.  She  had  not  meant  only  to  say  that. 
She  met  his  questioning  eyes. 

It  may  have  been  chance.  It  may  have  been  her  very 
youngness.  (She  seemed  somehow,  all  the  same,  so  much 
older  than  her  looks.)  It  was  a  moment  or  two  before  the 
eyes  of  either  released  the  eyes  of  the  other.  Then  the  white 
lids  fell. 

She  went  on  eating  her  soup. 

The  look  was  as  long  and  as  deep  as  the  look,  months 
ago,  which,  passing  between  them,  —  strangers,  —  had  so 
greatly  disturbed  him,  which  had  robbed  him  of  his  peace 
of  mind,  set  him  wandering  with  the  disconsolate  Harrin- 
gay,  ended  his  search  and  begun  it.  Was  it  possible  that 
she  remembered,  knew  him  again?  Was  it  possible? 


228  CHRISTOPHER 

Again  the  clouds  threatened  to  engulf  him.  The  whir- 
ring started  afresh.  He  had  a  physical  sensation  of  dizzi- 
ness, during  which  for  an  instant,  but  only  for  an  instant, 
he  caught  the  eye  of  the  man  called  Heccadon.  He  must 
control  himself.  People  would  see.  She  herself  would 
see. 

She  finished  her  soup.  His  own,  scarcely  tasted,  he 
pushed  from  him. 

The  party  had  settled  down  to  the  serious  business  of  the 
hour.  He  heard  scraps  of  talk  detached  from  the  babel  of 
voices.  The  dowager  with  the  bathroom  was  abusing  the 
prime  minister. 

"Nor  am  I  saying  to  you  what  I  have  n't  said  to  him," 
he  heard  her  say.  "He  knows  what  I  think.  I  said  to  him 
myself,  I  said,  'If  you  think,'  I  said  — " 

A  louder  gust  of  other  people's  talk  drowned  her  utter- 
ance. But,  "I  think  I  had  him  there,"  Christopher  did 
hear.  Another  case  of  the  Bathroom  and  the  Plumber! 

A  woman  with  a  weather-beaten  face  and  a  tiara,  nod- 
ding her  head  to  whitebait,  was  talking  stable.  Christopher 
heard  something  about  Sore  Backs. 

An  authoritative  little  man  was  asking  for  whiskey  and 
soda. 

So,  all  eating  and  each  engrossed  with  the  concerns  of 
the  moment,  they  talked,  while  wonderful  things  happened 
to  Christopher.  What  wonderful  things!  He  had  not 
wanted  to  come  to  this  party,  he  remembered,  and,  quickly, 
as  a  rider  to  the  thought,  recalled  Trimmer's  prophecy. 

"You  have  n't  told  me,"  he  said. 

The  white  lids  were  raised  again. 

"Told  you?"  But  she  remembered.  "Oh,  my  name." 

There  was  the  briefest  pause,  but  a  pause.  Then  a  foot- 
man interposed  between  them  with  a  dish.  Christopher 
was  thus  denied  the  satisfaction  he  sought  for  still  a  little 
longer.  He  believed  that  this  was  because  the  thing  was  of 
such  tremendous  import  to  him,  that  even  such  outside 
agents  as  servants  and  dishes  must  contribute  to  keep  her 


CHRISTOPHER  229 

reply  "suspended."  He  did  not  chafe  at  the  momentary 
delay,  or  resent  it. 

"What  were  we  saying?"  It  was  she  this  time  who 
seemed  to  have  caught  the  eye  which  had  caught  Christo- 
pher's. But  with  her  as  with  him  the  thing  was  momentary, 
and  he  was  hardly  conscious  of  observing  it.  "Oh,  yes,  my 
name.  We  branched  off  at  yours,  did  n't  we?  We  got  as  far 
as  Devonshire." 

Her  name,  which  she  then  told  him,  took  him,  as  we 
know,  not  farther,  not  so  far  indeed,  but  in  another  and  a 
very  different  direction. 


CHAPTER  VI 

WHEN  he  came  back  from  his  mental  journey  to  Boulogne 
he  thought  he  had  always  known.  It  was  as  if,  behind  his 
ignorance,  had  lain  knowledge.  She  was  Mrs.  St.  Jemison's 
daughter  —  daughter  of  the  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  of  long  ago 
who  could  not  be  called  upon.  It  hardly  occurred  to  him 
to  doubt  that.  There  could  not  be  two  Cora  St.  Jemisons 
—  or,  as  there  were  or  had  been  two  (for  who  could  say 
what  one  Cora  St.  Jemison's  name  might  or  might  not  be 
by  this  time?),  there  could  not  be  three. 

Christopher  inherited  tolerance,  perhaps,  from  his  widely 
different  grandmothers,  the  tolerance  of  each  of  whom  in 
turn,  arrived  at  in  widely  different  ways,  was  sufficiently 
unlike  that  with  which  her  grandson  was  dowered.  Granny 
Oxeter's  had  been  the  gentle  tolerance  of  pity  and  under- 
standing; his  Grandmother  Herrick's  was  good-humoured, 
half-contemptuous  —  the  easy  indifference  of  one  who  has 
seen  the  world  at  too  close  quarters  to  expect  very  much  of 
it.  Christopher's  had  understanding  in  it,  some  gentle- 
ness, not  a  little  whimsical  indifference.  It  had,  however, 
another  quality  which  was  wholly  absent  from  that  of  one 
of  his  good  grandmothers,  and  only  present  in  negligible 
degree  in  that  of  the  other:  something  of  that  bold  sym- 
pathy with  the  law-breakers  which  comes,  itself,  of  an  impa- 
tience of  restraint.  Rightly  or  wrongly,  he  did  not  —  or  he 
thought  he  did  not  —  condemn  Mrs.  St.  Jemison,  or  any 
Mrs.  St.  Jemisons,  out  of  hand. 

The  sudden  knowledge,  then,  was  not,  for  the  moment 
at  any  rate,  at  all  of  the  nature  of  a  shock  to  him.  His  first 
feeling,  indeed,  was  that,  though  she  did  not  know  it, 
something  had  been  established  between  them. 

"Why,  then  — "he  began  eagerly,  but  broke  off. 


CHRISTOPHER  231 

What  had  he  been  about  to  say?  Good  Lord!  And  by 
how  little  he  had  escaped  saying  it.  He  held  his  breath. 
It  was  not  —  or  not  alone,  anyway  —  that  he  had  been 
on  the  point  of  speaking  of  her  mother,  but  that,  if  he  had 
spoken  of  her,  it  must  have  been  of  her  at  the  particular 
period  of  her  life  at  which  he  had  come  into  touch  with  her. 
He  remembered,  hot  and  cold,  the  groups  on  the  sands, 
the  looks  askance,  all  that  was  said,  all  that  he  had  ob- 
served but  had  not  understood  then.  It  had  not  been  till 
years  afterwards  that  he  had  understood.  By  that  time  the 
recollections,  happily,  were  dim  enough,  and  the  fact  of  his 
stepfather  —  his  affection  for  him,  his  acceptance  of  him, 
the  very  habit  of  him  —  firmly  enough  established  to 
divest  of  any  power  to  disturb  him  all  such  misgivings  as 
fuller  understanding  might  have  occasioned  him.  For  him- 
self he  took  things  and  people  much  as  he  found  them,  and 
as,  for  himself,  he  had  accepted  John  Hemming  to  step- 
father, so,  for  the  girl  beside  him,  he  could  accept  Mrs.  St. 
Jemison  to  mother.  Thus  the  knowledge,  as  it  might  have 
been  expected  to  influence  his  feelings  for  her,  —  fair 
daughter  of  frail  mother,  —  touched  him  not  at  all.  As  it 
might  affect  her  herself,  his  sensations  of  the  last  few  mo- 
ments showed  him  that  it  affected  him  profoundly. 

He  stammered,  found  words  with  which  to  extricate 
himself,  and  played  with  the  fish  on  his  plate.  The  danger- 
ous moment  passed. 

Yet  even  as  he  drew  breath,  he  wondered  whether  in 
truth  the  moment  had  been  dangerous  at  all.  Did  she 
know?  —  what  did  she  know,  rather,  —  how  much  even? 
She  had  been  little  more  than  a  baby  when  her  mother  was 
amusing  herself  in  throwing  her  cap  over  the  windmill  — 
in  seeing,  perhaps,  how  far  it  was  exactly  that  she  could 
throw  her  cap  over  the  windmill.  The  nine  days  were  some 
hundred  times  over  now,  but  memories  were  long.  She 
could  not  fail  to  know  that  the  St.  Jemison  cupboard 
held  a  skeleton.  She  could  scarcely  fail  to  know  its 
nature. 


232  CHRISTOPHER 

Afterwards,  wonderful  as  the  evening  was,  it  seemed  to 
him,  since  it  passed  without  his  learning  whether  or  not 
she  remembered  him,  to  have  been  made  up  of  missed 
opportunities.  Half  a  dozen  times  the  question  was  on  his 
lips.  The  simplest  thing  —  just  to  ask!  But  he  could  not. 
Instead,  he  talked  of  everything  else,  and  watched  her  — 
learning  her  face  by  heart.  Whether  the  exercise  made 
him  happy  or  unhappy  he  did  not  know.  Certainly  it 
baffled  him,  —  as  at  such  moments  when  he  surprised  in 
her  graveness  a  laugh  somewhere,  —  behind  her  eyes,  was 
it?  or  elusively  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth?  He  could 
not  tell.  But  the  graveness  and  the  laugh  were  both  there. 
The  two  together  made  him  feel  again  how  much  older 
she  was  than  her  years.  They  made  him  with  a  sudden 
recollection  of  the  recumbent  Chateau  So-and-So  —  ir- 
relevant here,  surely,  to  the  point  of  absurdity!  —  feel 
something  else,  too:  younger  as  he  knew  her  to  be  than 
himself,  how  much  older  she  was,  somehow,  than  he  was 
—  how  much  older  than  he,  perhaps,  would  ever  be.  She 
was  young  as  a  spring  leaf,  and  there  were  moments  when 
she  was  old  as  Time. 

In  reality,  of  course,  she  was  young  as  the  spring  leaf. 
The  Cora  of  his  dreams  must  be,  the  Cora  —  since  she  was 
Cora!  —  who  had  claimed  him  (if  she  had  claimed  him?), 
who  had  known  him  at  once  (if  she  had  known  him?),  who 
had  met  his  outspoken  "Is  it  you?"  clearly,  unfalteringly, 
finally,  with  "I,  Christy,  I!"  —  as  who  should  say  Once 
and  for  Ever. 

Had  she?  Had  she  not?  Had  she? 

Happy?  Unhappy?  Both. 

He  looked  over  in  her  direction  and  saw  that  the  man 
with  the  odd  name  was  talking  to  her.  But  even  as  he 
looked  there  was  a  move  and  the  party  began  to  break  up. 
She  came  over  to  say  good-night  to  her  hostess,  and  as  she 
passed  him  she  held  out  her  hand. 

Outside  the  night  had  changed.  Christopher  walked 
back  to  Ebury  Street  on  wet  pavements,  but  also  on  air. 


CHRISTOPHER  233 

The  air  which  he  trod  dried  the  pavements,  perhaps.  He 
hardly  perceived  that  rain  had  been  falling.  Happy?  .Un- 
happy? Happier  than  ever  before  in  his  life. 

The  Hemmings  were  going  home  at  the  end  of  that  week, 
and  Christopher  went  with  them  —  thought  himself  able 
to  go  with  them.  He  had  lived  for  three  days  then  upon 
what  the  wonderful  evening  had  given  him.  It  seemed 
enough  for  him  at  first  that  the  thing  should  have  happened ; 
enough  that  he  should  have  seen  Cora  St.  Jemison,  heard 
her  voice,  touched  her  hand,  learned  her  name,  even  if 
her  name  must  of  necessity  cause  him  some  misgiving.  So 
back,  unthinkingly,  he  went  with  the  rest,  and  for  a  time 
was  content. 

The  old  house,  which  was  "home"  to  him,  seemed  more 
than  ever  delightful  after  the  Ebury  Street  lodgings.  He 
loved  the  broad  window  sills,  on  which  in  the  summer  he 
would  sit  with  a  book  and  his  legs  drawn  up  to  make  room 
for  the  length  of  them ;  the  old-fashioned  hearths,  the  low 
ceilings,  the  leisurely  staircase.  His  stepfather  had  inher- 
ited the  house,  almost  as  it  stood,  from  an  old  uncle  who 
had  lived  an  unhurried,  orderly  life  in  it,  preserving  its 
ancient  peace.  Christopher  loved  it,  had  grown  to  it,  as, 
in  the  impressionable  days,  he  had  grown  to  the  old  French 
town  to  which,  though  he  had  left  it  as  we  know  without  a 
pang,  he  always  looked  back  with  such  affection.  Now  it 
suited  his  mood,  as  perhaps  never  before.  He  wanted  to 
think  —  resting,  as  a  rower  on  his  oars. 

He  had  something  to  go  upon  now.  Though  he  had 
missed  his  opportunities  —  even  wasted  his  chances,  he 
had  something  to  go  on.  He  might  not  see  Cora  St.  Jemi- 
son, —  could  not,  indeed,  —  but  now  if  need  were  he  would 
always  be  able  to  find  her.  No  longer  could  the  wide  world 
engulf  her.  With  a  name,  she  had  also  a  local  habitation. 
He  had  only  to  ask  to  know  where.  He  could  wait,  or  he 
thought  he  could,  to  see  if  indeed  need  would  "be."  He 
was  sure  he  could  wait. 


234  CHRISTOPHER 

He  saw  life  slide  back  gently  into  its  old  grooves.  He 
rode  with  John  Hemming  and  Fatima;  walked  or  drove 
with  his  mother;  read,  smoked,  played  the  piano.  Nothing 
seemed  changed. 

And  then  everything  seemed  changed. 

He  could  not  stop.  He  must  get  away.  She  was  in  Lon- 
don, and  here  was  he  twenty  miles  distant.  How  had  he 
thought  he  could  stand  it? 

It  was  Fatima  who  lifted  up  her  voice  when  he  announced 
his  intention  of  going  back  to  London.  His  mother,  wiser 
in  her  generation,  said  nothing.  It  had  been  a  great  de- 
light to  her  to  have  him  with  her.  Oxford  absorbed  so 
much  of  his  year,  and  when  Oxford  released  him,  so  many 
people  wanted  him.  She  loved  to  have  him  at  home,  but 
if  he  wanted  to  go  he  must  go ;  so,  to  the  rebellious  Fatima, 
it  was  "Nonsense,  Ancebel.  You  mustn't  bother  him." 
No  one  must  bother  him.  It  was  always  like  that.  But 
just  sometimes  Anne  looked  back  to  the  time  when  Christ- 
opher had  been  a  little  boy  and  she  had  had  him  to  herself. 
At  such  moments,  happy  as  she  was  with  her  husband,  — 
even  because  she  was  so  happy,  —  she  sent  a  piercing 
thought  to  the  lonely  grave  over  the  seas.  Once  Trimmer 
caught  her  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  But  Trimmer  was  Trim- 
mer, and  knew. 

Fatima,  less  considerate,  must  wrestle  with  the  adver- 
sary for  the  body  of  her  beloved  Christopher.  This,  though 
she  did  not  know  that  there  was  an  adversary!  Not  long 
did  she  remain  ignorant. 

"What  do  you  want  to  go  to  London  for?"  she  urged. 
"You've  been  there." 

It  was  what  she  had  said  when  "Abroad"  had  been  the 
question.  Her  wits  were  fiendishly  nimble.  Her  words 
caused  the  one  occasion  to  remind  her  of  the  other.  The 
adversary,  thereto  unsuspected,  took  immediate  shape  for 
her.  Nimble  indeed  the  wits  of  Fatima! 

"It's  some  girl  you've  fallen  in  love  with."   That  was 


CHRISTOPHER  235 

easy.  Any  one  might  have  said  that.   But  "It's  that  girl 
at  Victoria  —  who  looked  at  you  on  the  platform!" 

It  took  an  Ancebel-Fatima  to  have  seen,  and,  having 
seen,  to  remember,  and,  having  remembered,  to  say  that. 

Christopher  was  startled. 

"What  girl?" 

"In  the  summer  when  mummy  and  I  were  going  to 
Herrickswood  and  you  would  n't  —  that"  —  Fatima  had 
n't  done!  —  "that  white  girl." 

"White  girl?" 

It  was  almost  uncanny. 

"She  was  white  —  that's  how  one  would  think  of  her." 

It  was  extraordinary.  Christopher  for  an  instant  showed 
himself  startled.  He  looked  at  Fatima  blankly,  and  an 
amazed  "Good  Lord!"  nearly  jerked  itself  from  him. 

He  was  packing.  His  room  was  strewn  with  things. 
Clothes  were  piled  up  on  the  chairs,  —  trousers,  coats, 
waistcoats;  and  the  bed  was  covered  with  shirts.  He  was 
not  coming  home  again  before  he  went  back  to  Oxford. 

Fatima,  clearing  an  indignant  place  for  herself  on  the 
bed,  did  not  fail  to  perceive. 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  do.  It 's  months  ago.  But  I  saw. 
You  thought  you  looked  through  into  each  other's  hearts 
like  people  in  books  — 

"If  little  girls  are  going  to  talk  nonsense  — " 

"It's  the  looking  that's  nonsense.  You  don't  want  her 
— you  only  think  you  do.  You're  blinded.  You  thought 
she  was  the  one  person  in  the  world.  I  saw  you  think  that 
at  Victoria.  I  knew  at  once  what  you  were  thinking.  I 
always  do  —  what  every  one  is,  I  mean.  Father,  mother, 
Trimmer  —  every  one.  Especially  Trimmer.  I  Ve  always 
known  what  she  was  thinking  all  my  life.  So  of  course 
I  knew  what  you  were.  It  was" — Ancebel-Fatima  gathered 
herself  up  —  "it  was  No  Ordinary  Look." 

"No  Ordinary  Thinking,"  said  Christopher.  He  laughed 
to  himself.  "'No  Ordinary  Look!'  You  know,  you've 
been  reading  novels,  my  dear,  —  and  jolly  bad  ones  at 


236  CHRISTOPHER 

that!  I  shall  have  to  warn  your  parents  and  guardians  to 
look  after  you  a  bit  more,  and  to  supervise  what  you  fill 
your  young  head  with.  'Through  into  each  other's 
hearts' !  '  Blinded ' !  The  '  One  person  in  the  world,'  indeed ! 
Penny  novels,  you  know,  Fatima.  Not  to  be  thought  of. 
Not  —  to  —  be  —  thought  —  of." 

He  had  her  by  the  leg  now,  she  him  by  the  throat.  They 
might  scuffle  like  children,  however,  and  they  did,  —  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  by  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece !  — 
nothing  could  alter  the  facts.  Fatima  knew.  Christopher 
knew  that  she  knew.  She  even  knew  this. 

Released  by  him,  presently,  and  releasing  him  in  turn, 
she  fastened  upon  the  adversary  —  sought  by  disparage- 
ment to  defeat  her  in  his  eyes.  Who  was  she  —  a  girl  on 
a  platform?  A  stranger.  Some  one  you  passed  in  a  crowd. 
Where  did  she  come  from?  He  might  know  now,  but  he  had 
not  known  when  the  "spell"  (Ancebel-Fatima's  actual 
phrasing!)  — was  "cast"  upon  him.  Any  Girl  from  Any 
Where.  That  was  who  she  was!  And  was  this  the  sort  of 
person  .  .  .  ? 

"You've  been  reading  novels,"  said  Christopher  again, 
"and  listening  to  charwomen." 

He  might  laugh,  though,  as  he  did,  —  even  to  causing  the 
flushed  and  spluttering  Fatima  through  all  her  indignation 
to  laugh  too !  —  there  was  that,  none  the  less,  which  was 
not  laughter  in  his  face.  He  was  chafing  to  be  up  and  off. 
Something  stronger  than  little  sisters  had  come  into  his 
life.  Fatima,  understanding  but  dimly,  perhaps,  for  all  her 
impish  precocity,  saw  for  all  that. 

She  wrestled  to  the  last.  He  left  the  next  morning. 

London  again;  St.  James's;  he  went  back  to  his  old 
rooms. 

It  was  from  his  old  rooms  —  while  he  was  staying  in 
them,  that  is  —  that  he  had  first  seen  her;  from  them  that 
he  had  set  out  upon  the  day's  adventures  which  had  given 
him  Chelsea,  the  river,  and  Greenwich ;  from  them  he  had 


CHRISTOPHER  237 

set  forth  on  his  quest.  Poor  Harringay !  How  he  had  tried 
him !  He  had  not  found  him  wanting,  either,  when  all  was 
said  and  done.  There  would  be  no  Harringay  this  time, 
no  any  one  to  bother,  no  one  but  himself. 

He  had  no  settled  plan.  Somehow,  that  was  all,  he  meant 
to  see  Cora  St.  Jemison.  He  did  not  know  yet  how  this  was 
to  be  accomplished,  but  he  intended,  come  what  might, 
to  accomplish  it. 

London  was  under  a  pall  of  fog.  There  were  such  fogs  in 
those  days,  recent  though  they  be,  as  in  these  we  have  al- 
most forgotten.  Datchet  had  been  clear,  the  railway  lines, 
while  Christopher  waited  on  the  platform,  even  gleaming 
in  wintry  sunshine.  At  Wraysbury  (God  help  us !)  the  train 
had  entered  a  whitish  mist.  By  Richmond  the  mist  had 
nothing  of  white  in  it,  and  thickened  thenceforward. 
Coughing,  grunting  passengers  took  their  seats  dismally 
and  brought  dampness  into  the  sombre  carriages.  By 
Waterloo  the  fog  was  pea-soup. 

He  had  telegraphed  to  Jermyn  Street,  and  a  bright  fire 
welcomed  him  there,  doing  its  best  to  dispel  the  gloom  of  his 
sitting-room.  While  his  landlord,  who  always  valeted  him, 
unpacked  for  him,  he  tried  to  determine  what  he  should  do. 
London  was  of  course  dreadful  to-day,  but  it  was  dreadful 
in  a  big  sort  of  way.  Only  London  could  do  what  London 
was  doing,  only  London  could  be  what  London  was.  He 
did  not  wholly  dislike  the  fog  which  had  caused  his  fellow- 
travellers  such  distress  and  inconvenience.  There  was 
something  not  uncosy  in  the  murkiness.  From  the  hearth 
and  with  a  sense  of  pleasure  he  listened  to  the  man  moving 
quietly  about  in  the  next  room,  opening  drawers  and  closing 
them,  pulling  out  or  pushing  in  the  trays  in  the  wardrobe, 
opening  or  shutting  its  doors.  A  drawer  stuck  for  a  moment, 
and  he  heard  the  restrained  sounds  of  the  adjustment  of  it 
and  then  of  its  easy  sliding  home.  There  was  no  impatience, 
no  undue  haste.  The  fog  shut  him  in  with  pleasant  things, 
and  his  spirits,  which  had  sunk  a  little  in  the  train,  began 
to  rise. 


238  CHRISTOPHER 

What  to  do?  Somewhere  in  the  darkness  was  Cora  St. 
Jemison.  She  at  this  moment  was  shut  into  some  lamp- 
lit,  fire-lit  room.  The  fog,  isolating  every  room,  turning 
every  lighted  room  into  a  lantern  swinging  in  the  blackness, 
brought  him  very  near  to  her. 

V  Mr.  Jellicoe." 

"Sir,"  from  the  inner  room. 

The  sounds  ceased.  His  landlord  appeared  at  the  folding 
doors. 

"Have  you  such  a  thing  in  the  house  as  a  Red  Book?" 

Mr.  Jellicoe  thought  so,  and  would  see.  The  darkness  of 
the  passage  and  the  stairs  swallowed  him.  Christopher  went 
to  the  window  and  looked  out.  Thick  yellow  waves  rolled 
up  against  the  glass.  He  could  see  the  movement  in  what 
looked  like  stillness,  presently  could  almost  see  the  par- 
ticles turning  over  and  over  in  masses,  as  he  had  seen  the 
churned  mud  turn  and  turn  in  the  waters  of  the  river. 
The  fog  itself  was  like  a  river,  a  flood,  a  sea!  Now  the 
window  was  like  the  glass  wall  of  a  tank  in  an  aquarium, 
through  which  you  look  to  see  the  strange  doings  of  strange 
fish.  So  like  indeed  that  Christopher  would  not  have  been 
Christopher  if,  while  he  waited,  he  had  not  conjured  up 
the  shapes  of  scaly  creatures  to  swim,  in  the  yellow  murki- 
ness,  close  up  to  the  glass,  there  with  mouths  and  fins  and 
tails  working  automatically,  to  gaze  at  him  for  a  moment 
before  whisking  away,  with  a  flash,  perhaps,  as  of  tarnished 
silver,  into  the  further  obscurity.  So  engrossed  was  he 
with  his  fancies  that  Mr.  Jellicoe's  voice  startled  him. 

"One  of  my  gentleman's,  sir,  —  Colonel  Whipple's.  My 
own  was  not  quite  so  recent.  Colonel  Whipple  begged  you 
would  keep  it  as  long  as  you  wished,  sir." 

Christopher  took  the  book,  sending  a  message  of  thanks 
to  its  owner,  and  Mr.  Jellicoe  withdrew.  The  sounds  of  the 
interrupted  unpacking  were  continued  for  a  minute  or 
two,  and  then  the  shutting  of  a  door  followed  by  silence 
told  Christopher  that  the  thing  was  done.  His  clothes, 
neatly  folded  and  arranged,  lay  commodiously,  he  knew, 


CHRISTOPHER  239 

in  the  drawers.  His  brushes  and  combs  and  shaving-tackle 
were  set  out  orderly  on  his  dressing-table.  Everything, 
he  would  find,  lay  where  his  hand  would  most  readily  light 
on  it. 

He  looked  at  the  book,  which  he  had  not  yet  opened. 
As  the  name  had  been  withheld  from  him  for  spaces  of 
time  which  had  seemed  protracted,  so  now  he  was  with- 
holding from  himself  what  the  red  volume  might  have  to 
tell  him.  He  had  only  to  look;  he  knew  that.  Somewhere 
in  black  London  lived  Cora  St.  Jemison,  and  the  book  he 
was  holding  knew  where.  It  was  deliberately  that  up  to 
that  moment  he  had  not  sought  to  know  where  she  lived. 
He  had  liked  to  know  that  he  did  not  know,  but  could 
know.  He  had  dallied  with  this  feeling  for  so  many  days 
that  he  was  reluctant  to  part  with  it.  Why?  Explain  the 
lover  —  any  lover  —  even  to  himself ! 

Well,  now  he  did  want  to  know.  The  need,  which  from 
the  beginning  might  be,  was.  He  opened  the  book  and 
turned  to  the  Saints. 

St.  Germaine,  St.  Germans,  St.  Hill,  St.  John,  St.  Leger, 
St.  Leonards,  St.  Oswald  .  .  . 

The  name  was  not  there.  He  left  the  Saints  and  turned 
on.  After  Sterling  and  Stevens  came  Stock. 

He  went  back  to  the  Saints,  doubting  his  eyes.  But  the 
book  must  be  wrong,  the  list  incomplete.  St.  Jemison  must 
be  left  out  in  error.  Between  St.  Hill  and  St.  John  there 
must  be  names  which  were  here  unrecorded.  Besides, 
he  knew  that  the  St.  Jemisons  had  a  house  in  London.  He 
had  heard  his  Grandmother  Herrick,  who  had  known  them 
years  ago,  speak  of  it.  He  rang,  and,  a  servant  answering 
the  bell,  he  sent  down  a  message  asking  if  he  might  see 
Mr.  Jellicoe's  own  Red  Book,  which,  he  had  understood 
Mr.  Jellicoe  to  say,  was  an  old  one. 

Mr.  Jellicoe  himself  appeared  with  the  volume. 

" I 'm  ashamed  to  bring  it,  sir.  It's  more  than  ten  years 
old,  I  find." 

"Just  what  I  want,"  said  Christopher.  He  believed  now 


240  CHRISTOPHER 

that  Mr.  St.  Jemison  had  had  a  house  in  London,  and  in 
all  probability  had  disposed  of  it! 

St.  Germans,  St.  Hill,  St.  Jemison.  There  it  was:  St. 
Jemison,  Oswald,  Esq.,  3  Wolf  Street,  Mayfair.  St.  Hill, 
St.  Jemison,  St.  John.  Christopher  owed  the  book  an 
apology. 

Mr.  Jellicoe,  retiring,  was  apologising  in  turn  for  his 
copy. 

"  Nearly  eleven  years  old,  sir.  I'll  get  a  new  one  to-day. 
Almost  a  reflection,  so  to  speak,  on  the  house." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Christopher,  a  little  abruptly  but 
with  a  smile.  He  rallied  himself.  "  You  're  admirably  sup- 
plied with  everything:  Bradshaws,  A  B  C's,  Postal  Guides 
—  all  one  can  think  of.  How  should  one  expect  to  find 
Red  Books  in  rooms?" 

"We  had  rather  prided  ourselves,  Mrs.  Jellicoe  and  my- 
self, upon  the  house  being  well  found,  sir." 

Check,  then !  Not  so  simple  a  matter  as  Christopher  had 
supposed.  He  went  back  to  the  tank  and  watched  for  fish. 
But  he  had  lost  the  illusion  of  an  aquarium.  It  was  fog  that 
he  looked  into  now,  fog  pure  and  simple,  —  or  impure  and 
complex!  —  from  a  third-story  London  window.  What  to 
do?  Walk  London  as  he  had  walked  the  world?  He  went 
to  the  table  where  the  two  books  lay,  and  compared  the 
entries  as  he  might  have  compared  accounts.  "St.  Hill, 
St.  Jemison,  St.  John,"  and  "St.  Hill,  St.  John."  If  you 
could  but  "balance"  the  thing:  subtract  St.  Hill  and  St, 
John  from  St.  Hill,  St.  Jemison,  St.  John,  and  get  St. 
Jemison,  with  its  "3  Wolf  Street,  Mayfair,"  as  a  remainder! 

Actually,  of  course,  he  knew  what  his  next  move  might 
be.  Mrs.  Constaple,  his  hostess  of  the  wonderful  evening, 
erratic  as  she  was,  must  know  something  of  the  where- 
abouts of  one  so  recently  her  guest.  She  would  know  any- 
way where  Miss  St.  Jemison  had  been  living  or  staying  on 
the  night  of  the  dinner-party.  Yet  how  to  find  out  suffi- 
ciently casually?  And  how,  for  this  purpose,  to  make  sure 
of  seeing  her?  The  second  of  these  questions  was  in  point 


CHRISTOPHER  241 

of  difficulty  the  first.  He  did  not  want  to  waste  a  visit. 
He  had  still,  it  is  true,  to  "call"  after  dining, — a  cere- 
mony more  punctiliously  observed  in  those  days  than  now, 
—  but  if  he  did  call,  and  the  good  lady  should  be  out  or 
even  Not  at  Home,  what  then?  What  excuse  would  he 
have  for  going  again?  Easy  enough,  perhaps,  to  be  casual, 
but  how  to  compass  the  opportunity? 

He  found  himself  out  of  doors  presently.  Four  walls 
would  not  hold  him.  Four  walls  did  not  even  seem  any 
longer  to  hold  Cora  St.  Jemison.  With  the  knowledge  that 
he  could  not  be  sure  that  she  was  in  London  at  all,  he  could 
not  think  of  her  room  as  a  lantern  pendant,  somewhere  in 
the  darkness,  to  his  own. 

The  fog  had  not  lifted.  Rather  did  it  seem  to  have 
thickened.  On  the  pavements,  even,  the  going  was  careful. 
People  stopped  each  other  to  ask  where  they  were,  but 
mostly  with  amusement.  A  cheerful  old  woman  wanted 
Knightsbridge.  Her  voice  and  a  twinkle  in  her  old  eyes 
attracted  Christopher,  who  took  her  by  a  fat  arm  and  piloted 
her  into  Piccadilly.  There,  upon  the  south  side  of  the  street, 
there  would  be  a  straight  quarter  of  a  mile  which  she  might 
pursue  in  comparative  safety.  He  offered  to  go  farther 
with  her,  but  this  she  would  not  allow. 

She  was  as  right  as  rain,  she  declared,  once  she  knew  her 
direction,  was  a  merry  old  body,  and  chuckled  her  thanks. 
He  regretted  her  when  she  was  gone. 

In  the  roadway  the  traffic  moved  at  a  snail's  pace  to  the 
sounds  of  hoarse  cries.  There  was  yet  even  here  a  feeling 
of  cheerfulness  in  all  this  discomfort.  It  was  "'Old  up, 
there,"  and  "Where  are  y'  comin'  to,  can't  y'?"  with  a 
tendency  to  banter  upon  the  smallest  occasion  or  none. 
Christopher  felt  his  spirits  rise  again.  He  forgot  his  unrest 
and  surrendered  himself  to  the  influences  of  another  sort 
of  strange  day. 


CHAPTER  VII 

HE  made  for  Wolf  Street.  He  would  look,  at  least,  at  the 
house  where  once  she  had  lived  —  if  only  as  a  child.  That 
it  would  be  impossible  to  see  it,  was  a  small  thing  to  one 
who  just  now  was  less  Christopher  than  Romeo.  Fatima 
had  not  been  far  out  of  her  young  reckoning  when  she 
talked  of  a  "spell."  The  white  girl  had  assuredly  used 
enchantments. 

He  crossed  Piccadilly,  steering  a  hazardous  course  through 
the  moving  mass  of  vehicles,  and  under  the  heads  of  the 
horses.  Who  left  the  pavement,  that  day,  cast  off  and 
trusted  himself  to  the  open  sea.  Christopher,  forced  by 
the  exigencies  of  the  moment  to  take  an  oblique  direction, 
landed,  not  opposite  Arlington  Street,  where  he  had  parted 
with  his  old  woman  and  whence  he  had  started,  but  be- 
tween Dover  Street  and  Albemarle  Street.  He  crossed  Dover 
Street  then,  and  Berkeley  Street,  and  rejecting  Stratton 
Street  for  a  cul-de-sac,  rejected  Bolton  Street  also  and 
Clarges  Street.  When,  a  few  moments  after,  he  found  he 
had  passed  Half  Moon  Street  as  well,  he  turned  up  White 
Horse  Street,  and  lost  himself  in  Shepherd's  Market.  Five 
minutes  later  he  found  himself  inexplicably  back  in  Picca- 
dilly! 

He  found  Wolf  Street,  however,  eventually,  and  made 
out  Number  3.  He  saw  it  better — saw  more  of  it,  indeed 
—  than  he  might  have  expected,  for  lights  were  burning 
in  the  lower  rooms  and  the  blinds  were  up.  Under  cover  of 
the  darkness  he  permitted  himself  to  look  in. 

Strange  the  lover's  obsession  by  reason  of  which  one 
spot  should  be  hallowed  over  another,  one  house  picked 
out  from  its  fellows,  and  for  no  qualities  of  its  own  made 
separate,  made  wonderful! 


CHRISTOPHER  243 

To  Christopher  there  was  something  of  mystery  and 
enchantment  in  the  house  before  which  he  stood  and  into 
which,  like  any  gaping  errand-boy  who  hangs  on  to  area 
railings,  he  gazed.  Not  that  he,  Christopher,  was  hanging 
on  to  railings.  He  was  standing  quietly  on  the  pavement, 
a  tall  slim  figure,  shrouded  in  fog,  but  as  deliberately  and 
unashamedly  was  he  violating  the  sanctities  of  a  stranger's 
hearth. 

What  satisfaction  he  got  from  the  odd  exercise  it  would 
be  difficult  to  say.  The  room  was  a  library,  but  it  might 
not  always  have  been  a  library.  Nothing  may  have  been 
as  it  was  in  the  time  of  the  St.  Jemisons.  Still,  it  seemed 
probable  that  the  room  had  not  been  much  altered.  The 
shelves  which  lined  the  walls  looked  as  if  they  had  always 
been  there.  The  stuffed  leather  chairs  were  such  chairs  as 
assuredly  ought  to  have  been  there.  There  was  a  large 
writing-table.  There  were  branch  candlesticks  on  the 
mantelpiece.  The  red  Turkey  carpet  looked  soft. 

A  comfortable,  well-appointed  room,  in  which  doubtless 
some  one  lived  a  comfortable,  well-appointed  life.  A  score 
of  such  rooms  lay  within  a  hundred  yards  of  where  he  stood. 

Then,  as  he  looked,  the  door  opened.  Some  one  was 
coming  in,  and  —  so  much  grace  had  he!  —  he  moved  at 
once  to  move  away.  But  even  as  he  moved  something  hap- 
pened, something  so  extraordinary,  or  at  least  so  unex- 
pected, that,  like  a  veritable  errand-boy,  he  did  now  — 
though  for  a  very  different  reason  —  hold  on  actually  to 
the  spear-heads  of  the  railings.  He  held  on  to  them  while 
the  world  turned  round.  For  into  the  room  had  come  a  girl, 
and  under  his  astonished  eyes  the  girl,  who  at  the  first 
glance  was  just  a  girl  like  any  other,  grew  first  vaguely 
familiar,  and  then,  with  a  suddenness  which  took  his 
breath  away,  became  miraculously  but  indisputably  Cora 
St.  Jemison  herself. 

How  long,  after  this  miracle,  he  hung  to  the  railings  he  did 
not  know.  It  was  a  servant  in  the  end  who  dislodged  him 


244  CHRISTOPHER 

—  a  kitchen-maid,  with  a  cold  in  her  head  and  a  scuttle 
in  her  hand,  stepping  across  the  area  to  fetch  coal.  The 
fog,  away  from  the  light  of  the  windows,  swallowed  him 
up. 

When  he  came  to  himself  he  had  walked  as  far  as  Ox- 
ford Street. 

The  fog  now  began  to  lift.  It  was  as  if  it  had  played  its 
part  and  might  go.  All  this  for  Christopher?  All  this. 
Light  showed  through  from  above.  Though  there  was  no 
perceptible  breeze,  masses  of  dirty  vapour  must  be  rolling 
away  overhead.  He  thought  he  could  see  them  so  rolling  off, 
as,  a  short  while  back,  he  had  seen  them  rolling  up  to  his 
window.  Horses,  carriages,  people,  began  to  take  definite 
shape. 

Christopher's  spirits  now  rose  to  boiling-point.  He  might 
ask  himself,  What  now?  he  might  ask  himself  what  he 
wanted,  he  might  puzzle  himself  with  all  the  questions  that 
ever  were  or  ever  would  be!  nothing  would  thenceforth 
persuade  him  that  for  this  day  at  least  the  gods  were  not 
upon  his  side.  The  fog  itself  had  come  that,  out  of  the 
darkness  of  it,  he  might  see  into  a  lighted  room ! 

He  walked  down  Park  Lane.  The  houses  were  breaking 
through  now,  the  railings,  the  trees.  At  every  yard  the  day 
grew  lighter.  His  heart  sang  to  the  tune  of  the  coming 
light.  He  watched  it  creep  over  the  town,  driving  the  dark- 
ness before  it. 

Again  he  could  rest.  He  could  even  have  found  it  pos- 
sible to  go  back  to  Datchet.  He  understood  once  more  how 
and  why  he  had  been  able  to  go  home  with  the  others  — 
a  thing  which,  less  than  twenty-four  hours  ago,  had  seemed 
incomprehensible.  No  longer  was  he  driven.  He  could 
rest. 

Quite  idly  he  watched  the  happenings  of  the  moment: 
a  wagon  with  sturdy  horses  pursuing  a  rumbling,  leisurely 
way;  a  hansom,  made  topheavy  with  a  trunk,  swinging 
loopwise  and  ridiculously  on  its  springs ;  two  omnibuses 


CHRISTOPHER  245 

abreast,  dallying  with  a  temptation  to  race.  Looking  at 
these  he  wanted  them  not  to  resist  the  temptation;  but 
when  they  did  resist  it,  he  acquiesced  contentedly  in  what 
was  after  all  their  better  judgment.  Then  a  girl  in  a  tight, 
shabby  satin  dress,  with  a  milliner's  cardboard  box  on  her 
arm,  came  into  the  scheme  of  things,  and  was  stopped 
with  a  touch  on  the  shabby  satin  arm  by  a  young  postman. 
Lovers!  He  saw  lovers  as  he  had  seen  lovers  at  Greenwich. 
Lovers  suddenly  were  everywhere  —  people  in  couples. 
He  turned  into  Tilney  Street  that  he  might  look  at  the 
house  where  Mrs.  Fitzherbert  had  lived  and  loved  .  .  . 

God  was  in  His  heaven.  All  was  right  with  the  world. 

And  then  Christopher  knew  that  he  was  hungry. 

He  took  a  hansom  and  drove  to  the  Strand.  The  day 
had  taken  him  back  to  the  other  wonderful  day,  and  it 
seemed  fitting  that  he  should  lunch  where  he  had  then 
dined,  and,  above  all,  that  he  should  drink  Chateau  So- 
and-So. 

A  waiter  waved  him  to  a  table,  but  he  looked  at  another 
which  was  occupied.  Nor  was  he  to  be  baulked  of  it  for 
the  waving  of  napkins,  howsoever  persuasive.  He  intended 
to  sit  at  the  table  at  which  Harringay  and  he  had  sat.  He 
waited  for  it  till  it  became  vacant,  which  happily  was  al- 
most at  once,  and  looked  on  relentlessly  as  it  was  prepared 
for  him. 

He  ordered  a  modest  lunch  and  took  up  the  wine-list. 

Chateau  So-and-So  was  not  there! 

Not  there!  He  looked  again,  doubting  his  eyes. 

Chateau  So-and-So  was  not  there.  It  was  like  St.  Jemi- 
son  and  the  Red  Book.  It  was  the  Red  Book  and  St. 
Jemison  over  again.  Not  there?  Chateau  everything  else. 
But  it  must  be.  Even  if  it  was  n't,  it  must  be.  Came  the 
waiter;  came  the  waiter  who  looked  after  the  wine;  came 
the  Head  Waiter.  Consultations.  (Growth  of  importance 
for  Christopher!)  A  going  to  see. 

But  the  day  was  not  going  to  fail  him.   Return  of  the 


246  CHRISTOPHER 

Wine-Waiter  triumphantly.  There  was  just  one  half- 
bottle  left  —  just  one  solitary  pint.  Half  a  moment,  sir, 
and  the  man  withdrew.  But  Christopher  knew  what  it 
was.  A  cradle  for  the  solitary  pint.  That  was  it.  Chateau 
So-and-So  came  back  reclining,  warmed  —  a  Tush  on  her 
lips  —  indolent,  insolent,  delicate,  delicious  as  her  mother! 
Christopher  had  not  been  wrong.  The  day  could  not  fail 
him. 

He  ate,  slowly  enjoying,  conscious  of  enjoying,  what  was 
set  before  him ;  thinking,  but  hardly  conscious  of  thinking. 
It  was  thus  that,  without  knowing  that  his  mind  was  work- 
ing actively,  he  reasoned  out,  as  he  ate,  an  explanation 
of  the  St.  Jemison  presence  in  Wolf  Street.  It  was  all 
quite  simple.  After  the  scandal  Mr.  St.  Jemison  had  let 
the  house  —  probably  for  a  term  of  years  —  and  now  had 
gone  back  to  it.  If  he,  Christopher,  had  looked  up  Wolf 
Street  instead  of  St.  Jemison  itself,  the  silent  Red  Book 
would  even  have  told  him  to  whom.  Simple,  you  see,  as 
ABC.  But  the  marvel  of  the  fog  and  the  lighted  room 
and  of  the  entering  Cora  remained. 

Cora  became  again  the  most  beautiful  name  in  the  world. 
He  lingered  over  the  values  of  the  syllables  which  com- 
posed it,  as  he  lingered  over  the  luncheon.  "Cora."  It 
expressed  the  Cora  of  his  dreams  and  imaginings  —  if,  or 
as,  it  also  expressed  her  mother!  But  even  at  this  he  did 
not  frown.  There  was  something.  He  could  not  help 
knowing  it.  In  his  search,  had  it  not  always  been  in  girls 
of  one  type  that  he  had  seen  the  escaping  likeness  which, 
for  the  instant  of  its  duration,  had  set  his  heart  thumping 
or  stopped  it?  There  was  something.  But  it  was  part  of 
the  charm. 

He  paid  his  bill  and  went  out.  The  crowded  Strand 
received  him  —  accepted  him,  as  once  it  was  the  Crystal 
Palace  which  had  accepted  him.  The  song  of  the  moment 
—  it  may  or  may  not  have  been  "White  Wings"  then  — 
was  in  the  air,  and  in  his  ears  with  countless  other  sounds. 


CHRISTOPHER  247 

London  always  hummed  for  him  to  the  tune  of  some  song. 
Every  year,  since  he  had  first  become  aware  of  such  songs 
and  the  part  they  played,  added  another  to  his  collection. 
If  it  was  not  "Get  your  hair  cut,"  or  "What  cheer,  Ria," 
it  was  "Little  Annie  Rooney."  The  more  the  songs  altered, 
the  more  they  were  the  same  thing.  The  town  which  had 
capered  to  "Champagne  Charlie"  in  its  day,  and  swayed 
to  the  waltz-time  of  "Mother  Shipton,"  had  not  learned 
to  kick  up  its  heels  yet  to  the  jerk  and  thump  of  "  Ta-ra-ra, " 
nor  mastered  then  the  intricacies  of  rag-time,  but  when 
these  came  along  they  would  just  express  London  like  the 
rest.  Looking  back,  all  had  their  part:  "Comrades"; 
"The  Miner's  Dream  of  Home"  ("I  sor  the  old  howm- 
stead,  the  faces  I  love,  —  I  sor  England's  valleys  and 
dells");  "Harbour  Lights"  ("The  lights  of  the  Yarbour, 
the  Yarbour  lights");  "Hi-tidly-hi-ti";  "Daisy";  "Three 
pots  a  shilling";  "It's  all  right  in  the  summer-time"  — 
most  of  these  still,  of  course,  unborn,  but  each  in  its  day. 
Let  us  suppose  it  to  have  been  "White  Wings"  just  then 
—  "White  Wings"  in  the  streets;  and  the  "Garden  of 
Sleep,"  say,  for  "For  Ever  and  For  Ever"  in  the  drawing- 
rooms. 

"  Night  comes;  I  long  for  my  —  " 

Yes,  it  was  "dearie,"  to  rhyme  with  "weary"! 

"  I  spread  out  my  white  wings  and  sail  home  to  thee." 

Well? 

Well,  young  Christopher,  if  only  you  could,  eh?  If  only 
you  could. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AND  yet,  his  ardour  notwithstanding,  his  heart-hunger,  his 
passion,  the  turbulence  of  his  feelings  generally,  he  did  not 
meet  Cora  St.  Jemison  again  for  considerably  more  than 
two  years.  All  that  time  he  thought  about  her.  She  was 
never,  that  is,  wholly  out  of  his  thoughts.  Other  things 
occupied  him,  engrossed  him  even,  but  she  was  there.  He 
did  things  too;  took  his  degree;  and,  sent  by  his  grand- 
mother, went  (more  or  less)  round  the  world. 

Many  things  contributed  —  conspired  even  —  to  keep 
the  two  apart.  In  the  first  instance  it  was  the  fog  which 
sent  her  away  —  treacherous  fog  that  in  some  sort  might 
be  said  to  have  given  her  to  him!  Mr.  St.  Jemison,  it 
chanced,  for  the  first  time  for  years  was  spending  a  winter 
in  England.  The  fog  which  engulfed  London  on  that 
memorable  morning  dealt  summarily  with  the  experiment. 
There  had  been  other  fogs.  It  wanted  but  one  for  the  last 
straw.  The  servants  were  set  or  sent  packing;  by  the  end 
of  the  week  father  and  daughter,  valet  and  maid,  were  on 
their  way  South;  and  this  time  Christopher  could  not  fol- 
low them. 

The  fog,  then,  first  and  foremost.  After  that  it  was 
Oxford  and  his  friends.  Easter,  then,  with  a  couple  of 
visits ;  then  Oxford  again,  —  his  nose  to  the  grindstone 
now,  —  all  sorts  of  agents  and  agencies.  But  who  shall  say 
how  it  was?  Neither  fate  nor  accident  threw  them  together. 
They  were  never  in  London  at  the  same  moment,  or  if 
they  were  they  did  not  meet.  And  so  to  Christopher's 
travels,  when  meeting  was  out  of  the  question.  The  day 
before  he  started  on  these  he  went  round  to  Wolf  Street 
again  —  as  so  often  he  had  done  since  the  day  on  which 
he  had  seen  her.  The  house  was  shut  up.  It  seemed  always 


CHRISTOPHER  249 

to  be  shut  up.  Upon  the  one  occasion  when  it  was  not,  he 
should,  it  was  plain,  on  any  pretext  or  none  have  rung  the 
bell  and  have  gone  boldly  in.  So  he  departed  and  so  the 
time  passed. 

He  had  only  to  wait.  Deep  down  in  his  heart  he  knew  — 
he  had  always  known.  He  set  his  face  towards  the  future. 

London  pulled  at  him,  however,  even  from  the  other 
side  of  the  world.  But  for  shame  —  and  perhaps  Harrin- 
gay,  who  was  with  him  —  he  would  have  cut  short  his 
wanderings.  Like  the  miner  who  dreamt,  he  too  saw  the 
old  "Howmstead,"  and,  amongst  the  "faces"  —  his 
mother's,  John  Hemming's,  the  indignant  Fatima's,  his 
grandmother's,  Trimmer's,  always  one  other  face  beckon- 
ing, beckoning.  With  London  he  lumped  Oxford,  Datchet, 
Boulogne:  London  in  some  odd  way  stood  for  them  all, 
with  whole  tracts  of  green  country  thrown  in,  and  Cora. 
Always  and  always  Cora. 

His  mother  met  him  at  Liverpool.  She  could  not  help  it. 
She  just  had  to.  It  was  perhaps  she  who  had  beckoned,  if 
the  truth  were  known  —  she  and  Trimmer,  who  came  with 
her. 

"I  declare  you've  grown,  Christopher." 

"At  my  age?"  said  Christopher,  laughing,  stooping  to 
kiss  her  again.  He  really  looked  taller  and  had  filled  out, 
but  was  still  on  the  slim  side.  These  were  grounds  for  de- 
claring that  he  had  grown. 

"We  must  show  him  to  his  grandmamma,"  the  privi- 
leged Trimmer  said  when  he  had  kissed  her,  too. 

"I  might  be  six  years  old,"  said  Christopher  —  which 
was  exactly  what  he  might  have  been,  what  in  some  ways 
he  was  and  perhaps  always  would  be! 

People  looked  at  Mrs.  Hemming  as  if  they  envied  her  her 
son.  She  appeared  hardly  old  enough  to  be  his  mother,  so 
gently  did  the  happy  years  deal  with  her,  but  (with  eyes 
for  no  one  but  him)  was  so  obviously  nothing  else. 

Harringay  had  landed  at  Queenstown.  The  three,  ridic- 
ulously happy,  travelled  up  to  London  together.  At  Eus- 


250  CHRISTOPHER 

ton,  where  John  Hemming  and  Fatima  (grown  Thinima, 
as  Christopher  told  her)  met  them,  Trimmer  resumed,  so 
to  speak,  her  livery.  Five  contented  persons  slept  in  Ebury 
Street  that  night. 

The  next  day  Christopher  went  to  Wolf  Street.  The 
house  was  dismantled.  The  board  which  caught  his  eye 
from  the  end  of  the  street  announced  that  the  lease  was 
for  sale.  He  went  down  to  Herrickswood  then  to  report 
and  to  show  himself  to  his  grandmother,  and  resigning 
himself  to  further  waiting,  just  went  on  with  his  life. 

It  was  now  that  Christopher  began  to  write.  It  had 
always  been  inevitable  that  sooner  or  later  this  must  be  the 
sorry  fate  which  would  overtake  him.  What  escape  was 
there  for  him?  None,  from  the  day  he  saw  Cora,  —  little 
enough  before  that.  The  need  to  express  came  then.  The 
thing  itself  was  decreed  —  decreed  in  the  "Come  along, 
Master  Christopher"  days,  established  from  the  moment 
when  he  saw  what  was  n't  there.  It  was  not  for  nothing 
that  it  had  once  been  said  of  him  that  Herrick  was  listen- 
ing to  the  inkpot.  He  may  have  been  listening,  it  was 
certainly  now  —  and  through  Cora  St.  Jemison,  by  reason 
of  something  that  she  had  done  to  him  —  that  he  heard  it, 
and  heard  it  distinctly. 

He  had  three  hundred  a  year  of  his  own.  He  bought 
a  box  of  "J"  nibs,  and  looked  out  for  rooms  in  Lon- 
don. 

His  grandmother  was  angry.  The  Herricks  had  been 
soldiers  when  they  had  not  been  country  gentlemen  —  or, 
as  she  might  have  added,  spendthrifts.  No  Herrick  had 
ever  wielded  anything  so  unpractical  as  a  pen.  Robert 
Herrick  had  not  been  distantly  connected  with  the  Her- 
ricks of  Herrickswood,  though  there  had  been  Herricks 
at  Herrickswood  then  a  couple  of  hundred  years  and  more. 
The  pen!  A  thing  to  play  with  if  you  liked.  She  could 
appreciate  Belles-Lettres.  But,  for  a  profession,  the  sym- 
bol of  a  career  .  .  .  !  Thus,  to  Christopher's  imperturb- 
able smiling,  she  raged  or  pretended  to  rage. 


CHRISTOPHER  251 

"  If  I  were  ten  years  younger,  —  not  if  you  were,  I  'd 
have  you  notice!  —  I  'd  box  your  ears." 

She  allowed  him  to  kiss  her  for  that. 

His  mother,  though  she  helped  him  to  look  for  rooms, 
was  disappointed.  It  was  John  Hemming  who,  at  this 
juncture,  understood  him  best. 

"Let  him  alone,"  he  said.  "The  boy '11  do.  If  he  never 
writes  a  line  worth  the  paper  it's  written  on,  he  won't 
have  missed  what  he's  here  for.  He  is  n't  meant  to  have 
the  sort  ofk  career  that  you  've  wanted  for  him  —  not  that 
I  know,  dear  woman,  what  it  has  been  all  along  that  you  Ve 
expected.  What  was  he  to  have  been?  Nelson?  Napoleon?" 

"Not  Napoleon,"  said  Christopher's  mother. 

"Wellington,  then?   Pitt?  Fox?  Palmerston?" 

Anne  did  n't  see  why  Christopher  should  n't  have  a 
career. 

"I  must  look  that  word  up  in  the  dictionary,"  said  her 
husband.  "  I  have  an  idea  that  it  means  a  good  deal  more 
and  a  good  deal  less  than  you  imagine." 

That  he  was  n't  going  to  have  a  Career  no  one  knew 
better  than  Christopher.  He  did  not  even  wish  for  any- 
thing so  portentous.  If  he  did  n't  quite  know  what  he 
could  do,  he  knew  very  well  indeed  what  he  could  not,  and 
if  he  wrote  it  was  because  he  had  to.  There  were  despairs, 
for  all  that.  He  had  something  to  say,  but  only  in  one  way 
could  it  be  said  —  only,  perhaps,  in  certain  words.  How 
to  find  it  and  them?  He  worked  hard  enough  —  for  Christ- 
opher, indolent  and  ease-loving,  he  worked  hard.  There 
were  wrestlings,  groanings  of  the  spirit.  Often  a  day's 
work  showed  three  lines.  That  did  not  matter.  It  was  when 
the  three  were  three  lines  still  at  the  end  of  as  many  days  — 
at  the  end  of  as  many  weeks  .  .  .  Had  he  been  mistaken? 
Had  he  nothing  to  say,  in  fine?  He  knew  he  had  something. 

And  then,  the  way  and  the  words  mastered  and  all  going 
well  as  he  thought,  there  would  uprise  of  a  sudden  a  grim 
and  impenetrable  barrier,  the  wall  unspeakably  blind  and 
blank  that  every  writer  knows  and  dreads.  On  the  other 


252  CHRISTOPHER 

side  of  this  wall  things  might  happen.  On  the  hither  side 
of  it  all  roads  were  blocked.  Useless  the  roads  themselves, 
useless,  that  is,  all  that  went  before,  if  this  wall  were  the 
final  goal. 

And  confronted  by  it,  cowed  by  it,  he  had  to  prove  him- 
self. He  was  disappointing  his  friends.  Even  his  mother 
was  asking  when  he  was  going  to  Begin.  He  might  know 
that  he  had  begun.  With  just  John  Hemming  of  all  the 
world  he  might  know  it  —  that  if  he  had  also  finished,  he 
had  begun.  But  there  must  be  something  to  show,  and  he 
would  come  near  to  believing  that  there  never  would  be. 

Those  were  the  horrible  days. 

But  there  were  others  —  days  when  his  pen  had  wings 
He  could  see  them,  almost:  two  little  wings  on  the  shaft, 
like  the  wings  at  Mercury's  ankles.  Then  would  his  pen 
fly.  Then  would  the  hours  fly  with  it.  It  was  a  delight  to 
add  another  and  another  page  to  the  fattening  bundle. 
He  could  hear  the  inkpot's  purr  of  satisfaction.  For  it 
had  called  to  him.  He  had  not  been  mistaken.  Christo- 
pher! Christopher!  Ridiculous,  if  you  like,  but  (to  Chris- 
topher) clear  in  its  hour  as  the  Samuel  of  that  call  to  which 
"  Lord,  here  am  I "  had  been  the  only  possible  answer,  with 
"Speak,  Lord,"  to  follow  naturally,  "Speak,  Lord,  for  thy 
servant  heareth."  Truly  there  were  compensations. 

He  had  rooms  in  Westminster,  in  a  house  now  gone  the 
way  of  so  many  of  Westminster's  gracious  old  houses.  It 
was  not  unlike  the  house  at  Datchet  —  had  the  same  broad 
window  sills,  low  ceilings,  and  leisurely  stairs.  He  was  high 
up,  near  the  stars,  but  even  in  this  upper  region  the  work 
of  the  builder  had  not  been  scamped.  The  walls  were 
panelled.  The  sloping  floors  were  oak.  There  were  hand- 
some mouldings  and  cornices,  the  beauty  of  which  the 
chippings  and  mellowings  of  time  had  done  nothing  to 
impair,  but  seemed  rather  to  have  enhanced.  The  fireback 
of  the  old  grate  in  his  sitting-room  was  a  perpetual  joy  to 
him.  For  less  than  he  would  have  paid  for  folding-doored 
abominations,  "communicating,"  in  South  Belgravia  or 


CHRISTOPHER  253 

Bayswater  or  South  Kensington,  he  had  the  top  floor  of 
the  house  known  as  3  Cloisters  Street,  Westminster,  within 
sight  of  the  river  and  sound  of  Big  Ben,  to  himself  and  his 
ready  or  reluctant  pen.  His  pen  should  never  have  been 
reluctant  in  such  surroundings. 

Mr.  Jellicoe,  his  landlord  of  Jermyn  Street,  had  helped 
him  to  his  quarters.  As  Mr.  Herrickwas  looking  for  rooms, 
might  he  venture  to  suggest  some  that  he  knew  of?  The 
house  —  not,  he  was  afraid,  in  a  fashionable  neighbour- 
hood —  belonged  to  a  cousin  of  his  wife's ;  a  Mrs.  Rommage, 
a  very  quiet,  respectable  person,  who,  he  was  sure,  would 
do  her  best  to  give  Mr.  Herrick  satisfaction.  Mr.  Herrick, 
who,  with  his  mother  (the  Mrs.  Hemming  of  Mrs.  Jellicoe 's 
admiration,  who  came  sometimes  to  Jermyn  Street),  had 
seen  South  Belgravia,  South  Kensington,  and  (protesting) 
even  Bayswater  in  his  search,  jumped  at,  and  as  soon  as 
possible,  into,  Mrs.  Rommage's  top  floor,  where  we  find 
him  with  his  frets  and  fevers  and  transports. 

So  much  for  his  occupation.  The  act  and  fact  of  living 
were  at  this  period  the  Thing.  He  was,  still,  more  inter- 
ested, whatever  he  may  have  supposed,  in  the  life  of  the 
streets,  the  faces  he  saw,  the  advertisements  on  the  hoard- 
ings, the  bill-sticker  with  his  brush  and  paste-pot,  the  shape 
or  the  sound  of  an  odd  name,  the  passing  of  a  barge  under 
Westminster  Bridge,  the  way  the  light  struck  the  sails  or 
left  them,  than  in  the  hours  he  devoted  to  work.  The  call 
of  the  inkpot  was  insistent,  nevertheless. 

He  would  go  for  his  wonderful  and  adventurous  walks, 
would  gird  himself  and  walk  fast,  Richmond  his  goal,  or 
Hampton  Court  or  Hampstead,  or  he  would  explore  Isling- 
ton or  Whitechapel  or  Hoxton.  He  made  many  discoveries ; 
found  the  Britannia  Theatre,  theretofore  a  name  to  him, 
but  endeared  to  him  for  its  own  sake  and  for  something 
in  the  sound  of  that  of  the  lady  with  whom  it  was  for  so 
long  associated ;  assisted  at  more  than  one  Festival,  — 
survival  of  the  larger  days,  —  and,  near  by,  lighted  upon 
the  last  home  of  the  toy  theatre  of  his  boyhood. 


C54  CHRISTOPHER 

Or,  very  carefully  dressed,  he  would  be  seen  in  quite 
other  places. 

Presently  in  spite  of  difficulties,  principally  difficulties 
created  by  his  temperament,  he  was  making  a  small  income ; 
and,  almost  as  soon  as  the  little  cheques  began  to  come  in, 
something  else  happened  which  altered  his  outlook  and 
set  him  once  more  upon  his  love-chase. 

He  had  been  out  for  one  of  his  walks  and  came  in  to  find 
Mrs.  Rommage  waiting  for  him,  a  telegram  in  each  hand. 

Mrs.  Rommage  was  an  excellent  woman,  a  good  cook 
even,  but  she  had  an  anxious  mind.  A  telegram  disturbed 
her;  two  telegrams  flustered  her. 

"You  had  n't  been  gone  five  minutes,  sir,  when  the  first 
come.  Not  five  minutes.  And  not  much  more  than  an  hour 
after,  if  there  did  n't  come  another!  I  did  n't  know  what 
to  do.  If  I  'd  known  where  to  send,  but  I  did  n't.  However, 
I  kept  them  separate.  This  is  the  first,  sir,  — "  she  broke 
off  and  looked  doubtfully,  and  then  apprehensively,  from 
one  to  the  other.  "No,  it  would  be  that  —  no,  this  .  .  ." 
She  turned  dismayed  eyes  on  him.  "  If  I  have  n't  been  and 
mixed  them.  If  I  have  n't,  after  keeping  them  separate 
this  three  hours!  What  you'll  say,  sir!  And  what  Mr. 
Jellicoe  would  think!  Oh,  Mr.  Herrick,  sir.  I  thought  to 
meself ,  he  '11  want  to  know  which  come  first,  sure  to,  and 
I  would  n't  let  the  servants  so  much  as  touch  them.  One 
come  and  then  the  other.  And  now  I  don't  know  which." 

Christopher  comforted  her.  Perhaps  it  would  say  in- 
side, he  said,  smiling. 

She  refused  to  be  comforted.  It  did  say  inside.  But  she 
shook  her  head,  blaming  herself.  Like  Mr.  Jellicoe  with 
the  ancient  Red  Book,  she  seemed  to  think  the  house 
compromised. 

"  Not  any  the  less  repre'ensible  upon  my  part,  sir." 

Blaming  herself,  and  anxious  but  not  inquisitive,  she 
withdrew. 

The  telegrams,  sorted  out  into  their  proper  order,  proved 
to  be  a  summons  to  Herrickswood  from  his  grandmother, 


CHRISTOPHER  255 

brooking,  it  seemed,  no  delay;  and  a  whip.  She  would 
know,  if  he  pleased,  whether  her  message  had  reached  him, 
whether  he  was  starting  at  once,  and  if  not,  why  not.  She 
was  not  ill,  she  was  thoughtful  enough  to  inform  him,  but 
the  matter  was  urgent. 

The  whimsical  note  was  present,  but  under  it  Christopher 
thought  he  could  detect  that  which  was  not  whimsical. 
He  telegraphed,  packed  a  bag,  and  caught  the  next  train.. 


CHAPTER  IX 

His  grandmother  herself  met  him  at  the  station.  The  foot- 
man —  but  neither  wooden  Albert  nor  the  Ventriloquist 
now !  —  informed  him,  to  his  surprise,  that  she  was  in  the 
carriage,  and  Christopher  hurried  out  to  her. 

"Your  Uncle  Stephen,"  she  said  when  they  had  greeted 
each  other;  adding,  "Why  on  earth  don't  you  get  your 
telegrams?"  in  impatient  parenthesis.  "Your  Uncle 
Stephen.  Not  that  I  could  have  telegraphed  it.  And  not 
that  I  might  n't  either,  since  by  this  time  every  one  prob- 
ably knows.  Have  they  got  your  luggage?  Blockheads. 
How  stupid  they  are.  There 's  Charles.  Tell  him  to  hurry, 
then.  That's  right.  Get  in  now." 

He  took  his  place  beside  her. 

"You're  too  late,  I  may  tell  you,  for  what  I  wanted  you 
for.  I  wanted  protection.  Some  one  with  me  of  my  own  — 
you,  Christopher.  Your  mother  would  have  done,  oddly 
enough.  But  she's  timid.  I  could  n't  have  asked  it  of  her. 
And  you  don't  get  your  telegrams.  What's  the  good  of 
you  ?" 

"What's  the  matter,  Grandmother  Herrick?" 

He  was  still  waiting  to  be  told. 

"Drink  was  the  matter  —  blazing,  raving,  fighting 
drink.  Now  nothing 's  the  matter.  Your  Uncle  Stephen 's 
dead,  Christopher,  and  his  wretched  old  mother  is  glad." 

But  she  was  crying.  Christopher's  hand  went  out  to 
hers.  It  is  dreadful  at  all  times  to  see  the  old  cry;  doubly 
dreadful  to  see  an  old  person  cry  whom  few,  in  all  her  long 
life,  had  ever  seen  to  cry. 

"Granny,"  Christopher  said,  "Granny." 

He  had  never  called  her  that  before.  Granny  was  for 
his  gentler  grandmother  —  the  Granny  Oxeter  of  a  thou- 


CHRISTOPHER  257 

sand  tendernesses.  It  was  thenceforward  for  this  grand- 
mother too. 

"He  was  such  a  pretty  boy,"  the  old  woman  was  saying. 
"People  used  to  turn  in  the  street.  Make  much  of  him.  He 
had  yellow  curls.  I  'm  talking  of  half  a  lifetime  ago.  I  sup- 
pose we  spoilt  him  —  his  father  as  much  as  I.  His  father 
adored  him.  I  remember  one  time  when  he  was  ill  ... 
Well,  he  did  n't  die  then.  I  've  wished  sometimes  that  he 
had.  He  was  prettier  still  at  the  age  when  it 's  dangerous 
for  a  boy  to  be  pretty.  And,  good  Lord,  when  he  was  nine- 
teen or  twenty !  I  don't  wonder  they  lost  their  heads  about 
him.  I  would  n't  have  minded  that  if  he  could  have  kept 
his  own.  But  he  could  n't.  At  Oxford.  Goodness!  He 
was  sent  down.  His  father  minded  that  more  than  I  did. 
I  'm  not  squeamish.  I  even  understood,  and  understand,  in 
a  way.  They  would  n't  let  him  alone.  His  own  class  then. 
The  St.  Jemison  woman,  —  though  I  ought  n't  to  speak  of 
her  to  you,  I  suppose,  —  and  that  sort.  I  've  taken  their 
part,  before  this  —  the  St.  Jemison's  —  often.  Now  I 
think  I  hate  her  more  than  any  of  them  for  the  mischief 
she  did.  Light,  light,  light,  as  I  told  your  mother  —  light, 
with  one  of  those  good  hearts  and  no  harm  in  her  —  rot- 
ten !  Your  mother  saved  John  Hemming  from  her,  Christ- 
opher, but  there  was  no  one  to  save  Stephen.  So  he  went 
on.  It  was  debts  and  women,  and  women  and  debts,  till 
it  was  women  and  debts  and  drink ;  and  drink 's  the  worst 
of  that  three  with  a  nature  like  Stephen's.  For  months 
at  a  time  I  have  n't  known  where  he  was  —  except  to  be 
sure  that,  wherever  he  was,  he  was  in  the  gutter.  Twice 
he  was  in  jail.  I  would  have  taken  him  back  at  any  minute 
—  he  knew  that.  I  speak  of  taking  him  back  as  if  he  was 
a  boy.  But  that  was  it.  He  was  always  a  boy  to  me.  It's 
as  a  boy  I  see  him  still." 

She  broke  off.  Christopher  said  nothing,  knowing  well 
that  in  letting  herself  go  she  was  getting  some  of  the  relief 
she  needed  so  grievously.  The  brougham  rolled  smoothly 
along  the  sleek  country  roads. 


258  CHRISTOPHER 

"I  loved  him  till  he  broke  my  heart,"  she  said  presently, 
more  now  to  herself  than  to  him.  "And  after  that  too," 
she  added. 

"Tell  me  how  you're  getting  on,"  she  said,  a  few  mo- 
ments later. 

He  told  her  something  of  what  he  was  doing. 

"But  you  don't  get  your  telegrams,"  she  said. 

They  turned  in  at  the  lodge  gates. 

"After  all,  you  could  only  have  been  here  two  or  three 
hours  sooner.  It  was  that  I  wanted  you.  My  first  weak- 
ness, I  believe,  in  what  has  been  a  fairly  self-reliant  life." 

Weakness !  It  was  others  in  the  house  who  told  him  what 
she  had  been  through,  what  all  had  been  through,  in  a 
three  days'  nightmare.  She  had  been  in  danger  of  her  life 
at  the  hands  of  a  madman,  for  two  of  them.  There  had 
been  horrors  —  times  when  it  had  been  necessary  to  hold 
the  patient  down  in  the  bed.  Christopher  heard  with 
dismay  and  admiration.  Why  had  he  not  been  sent 
for  before?  Mrs.  Herri ck  would  allow  neither  the  doctor 
nor  the  servants  to  send  for  any  one.  The  worst  was 
over  when  she  had  sent  the  first  telegram.  It  was  only 
then  that  the  nerves,  theretofore  of  iron,  seemed  to  have 
had  her  at  their  mercy. 

Difficult  to  realise  the  horrors  and  the  tragedy  of  the 
last  few  hours.  The  house  looked  the  same  as  ever.  In 
his  grandmother's  sitting-room  the  black  velvet  glove 
hung  over  the  coal-box,  and  a  fire  burned  brightly  at  the 
grate.  Difficult  even  to  realise  that  this  was  not  the  same 
black  velvet  glove  that  had  hung  there  when  he  was  a 
boy!  Many  velvet  gloves  must  have  succeeded  the  one 
which  he  remembered.  The  book  of  the  Views  of  the  Rhine 
was  on  the  table  where  it  had  always  stood .  Nothing  seemed 
changed. 

But  death  was  in  the  house  —  the  strange  feeling,  si- 
lences, tiptoeings.  The  servants  were  awed.  They  moved 
about  in  couples  with  whisperings.  In  the  unusual  si- 


CHRISTOPHER  259 

lence  were  unusual  sounds.  The  green  baize  doors  shut 
off  successions  of  visitors  to  the  housekeeper's  room  —  to 
the  servants'  quarters  generally.  Ollenshaw  could  have  told 
of  head-shakings  and  talkifications.  One  would  be  admitted 
or  another.  You  might  hear  the  quiet  opening  or  shutting 
of  doors  behind  doors,  the  furtive  commotions  of  death. 
There  were  endless  tea-drinkings.  Every  one  needed  sup- 
port. Every  one  had  something  to  say.  Every  one  knew. 
As  Christopher's  grandmother  had  said,  she  might  have 
telegraphed !  No  one  within  twenty  miles  but  knew  what 
Stephen  Herrick  had  died  of,  and  how  he  had  died. 

Outside  the  house  the  stories  were  flying.  He  had  tried 
to  strangle  the  nurses  or  his  mother.  Some  said  the  nurses, 
some  said  his  mother.  He  had  bitten  through  his  own  gold 
watch  in  his  paroxysms.  He  had  knocked  out  the  teeth 
of  one  of  the  grooms  who  had  been  fetched  in  from  the 
stables  to  hold  him.  You  could  n't  hold  him.  He  had  been 
bound  with  ropes  and  had  burst  them  like  Samson.  That 
sort  of  thing.  As  for  what  he  had  seen !  Bottle  imps,  pink 
rats,  devils.  It  was  Save  him  from  them.  Keep  them  off 
the  counterpane.  Snakes  too.  The  old  fly-blown,  thumb- 
marked  quota  of  snakes.  Green,  I  suppose,  or  pink  per- 
haps, like  the  rats.  They  did  not  even  let  him  off  those. 
He  was  spared  nothing,  indeed,  in  the  winged  stories.  All 
that  imagination  could  imagine,  or  invention  invent, 
was  credited  to  the  horrors  of  an  end  horrible  enough  in 
all  conscience.  Gibberings,  screamings,  cursings,  tears,  he 
was  given  all  these,  with  writhings  and  inarticulate  furies. 
And  to  drink  they  gave  him  brandy  and  brandy  and  again 
brandy,  to  inflame  him  and  their  own  imaginations.  His 
cunningnesses  and  his  clevernesses  and  his  machinations! 
Drink  could  not  be  kept  from  him.  If  the  nurses  so  much 
as  turned  their  backs  .  .  .  !  Moreover,  he  produced 
bottles  miraculously  from  under  the  bedclothes. 

So  the  stories  flew  outside  the  house.  The  delirium  of 
a  Coupeau,  with  borrowings  from  the  more  distressing 
symptoms  of  hydrophobia ! 


260  CHRISTOPHER 

Poor  Stephen!  He  at  least  had  done  with  it  all.  Poor 
mother  of  Stephen,  who  had  not,  and  who  knew  —  not  in- 
deed that  she  cared — how  tongues  wagged  and  would  wag. 

She  sat  at  dinner  as  usual ;  she  and  Christopher  opposite 
to  each  other  at  a  little  table  in  the  big  dining-room.  But 
things  were  not  quite  as  usual.  There  were  unaccustomed 
pauses  and  hitches.  The  kitchen  or  the  pantry  was  clearly 
demoralised.  Mrs.  Herrick  said  nothing,  but  grunted  her 
displeasure.  The  butler  and  his  paralysed  satellites  looked 
unspeakable  concern  and  apology.  It  was  the  kitchen, 
clearly. 

After  dinner  Christopher  did  not  stop  to  smoke,  but 
followed  his  grandmother  to  her  sitting-room.  She  did 
not  talk  of  Stephen  now,  or,  rather,  she  did  not  talk  of 
him  directly;  but  her  mind,  he  knew,  was  occupied  with 
her  dead  son.  She  talked  mostly  to  Christopher  of  his 
mother,  who,  he  knew  also,  had  always  had  a  pitying 
place  in  her  heart  for  the  ne'er-do-well. 

"I  made  the  marriage  between  her  and  your  step- 
father," she  said  —  irrelevantly,  it  might  have  appeared 
to  Christopher.  "She  would  never  have  married  him  but 
for  me." 

Christopher  may  have  thought  that  he  made  that 
marriage. 

"  Never,  if  I  had  n't  talked  to  her.  She  was  always  timid. 
She  had  n't  got  over  your  father's  death,  either.  In  one 
sense,  I  know,  she  never  will,  but,  in  another,  deaths  are 
what  the  living  have  to  get  over  —  if  they  are  to  go  on 
being  the  living,  that  is.  Your  stepfather  has  to  thank  me 
for  his  escape." 

It  was  not  quite  true.  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  had  failed  John 
Hemming  before  John  Hemming  sought  out  Christopher's 
mother.  Christopher  did  not  know  all  the  facts,  but  if  he 
had  known  them  would  not  have  dreamt  of  setting  the 
speaker  right.  He  was  astray  for  a  moment  or  two,  and 
then  saw  the  drift  of  the  old  woman's  thoughts.  She  was 
saying  again  that  there  had  been  no  one  to  save  Stephen. 


CHRISTOPHER  261 

At  ten  o'clock  his  grandmother  rose. 

"You'll  find  a  fire  in  the  library,"  she  said.  "Ask  for 
what  you  want.  There's  nothing  to  be  done  to-night.  The 
announcement  went  to  the  papers  this  morning.  To- 
morrow there  '11  be  letters  to  write,  people  to  see,  things 
to  settle,  and  you  '11  help  me." 

Christopher  lit  a  second  candle. 

"Don't  think  you've  got  to,"  she  said.  "Young  people 
hate  death.  It's  natural.  Yes,  I'm  going  in  to  see  him, 
to  say  good-night  to  him." 

"  I  want  to  come  with  you,  if  you'll  let  me." 

"Well,  there's  nothing  dreadful,"  she  said,  —  "nothing 
dreadful  —  though  he  died  dreadfully,"  she  added. 

She  led  the  way  to  the  room  which  Christopher  knew  so 
well.  It  was  always  his  mother's  room  at  Herrickswood. 
Some  of  her  associations  with  it  were  his  from  the  days 
of  the  memorable  visit.  He  had  heard  the  Waits  from  the 
dressing-room  adjoining.  The  Waits  were  a  dim  memory 
to  him  now,  but  still  a  memory. 

"  It  used  to  be  his,"  she  said,  "in  the  old  days.  He  liked 
big  rooms.  Your  father  was  content  with  something 
smaller.  Stephen  loved  his  ease." 

There  was  nothing  about  it  to  suggest  death  —  none  of 
death's  trappings.  Nothing  even  to  tell  of  what  had  gone 
before  death.  All  that  could  suggest  illness  had  been 
cleared  away.  Wonderful  rooms  that  keep  their  secrets! 
Wonderful,  and  beautiful,  and  horrible,  the  secrets  of  the 
old  rooms,  the  secrets  of  the  old  houses !  Christopher,  with 
a  momentary  shudder,  remembered  a  night  when  he  had 
seemed  to  know  everything  that  could  be  happening  in 
London;  a  night  made  up  of  "open  moments."  What 
such  open  moments  would  not  have  revealed  here! 

His  grandmother  saw  him  shudder. 

"Nothing  dreadful,"  she  said  again,  and  smiled. 

"I  know,"  Christopher  said. 

She  drew  down  the  sheet  which  outlined  the  figure  in 
the  bed. 


262  CHRISTOPHER 

No,  there  was  nothing  dreadful.  The  eyes  which,  a  few 
hours  back,  red-rimmed,  had  blazed  and  stared  and  started, 
closed  now,  were  as  the  eyes  of  one  very  gently  sleeping; 
and  the  features,  distressed  and  distorted  so  lately,  were 
calm.  Nothing  dreadful.  Something  very  tender  in  the 
aspect  of  the  resting  figure,  much  of  beauty  in  the  worn 
face. 

The  old  woman  and  the  young  man,  their  candles  held 
high,  stood  beside  the  bed. 

"It  was  rest  he  wanted  —  rest  from  himself.  He  was 
for  ever  driven,  hunted.  He  gave  himself  no  peace.  It 
was  as  if  something  insatiable  was  inside  him.  They  talk 
of  the  worm  that  never  dies  and  the  fire  that  can't  be 
quenched.  Ask  such  as  my  unhappy  son  there,  which  side 
of  the  grave  those  are  found.  Ask  any  one  who  lives  the 
life  of  the  flesh.  He  was  tormented  from  within.  They  all 
are.  It's  the  smoke  of  that  sort  of  torment  that  goes  up. 
God  pity  us  all,  Christopher.  God  pity  us  all." 

She  was  n't  crying  now.  If  any  one  was  crying  it  was 
Christopher  —  for  some  one  he  had  never  known.  He 
heard  himself  saying,  "Amen  to  that,"  rather  huskily. 
It  was  not  the  sort  of  thing  he  would  have  said,  or  could 
have  said,  at  any  other  time,  but  he  was  quite  sincere  as 
he  said  it. 

"You  mustn't  think  I'm  unhappy  about  him  now. 
Somehow,  sometime  or  other,  it  will  be  all  right,  even  for 
Stephen.  I  don't  know  how,  but  I  do  know  that.  I  'm  not 
thinking  of  him  as  knocking  at  the  door  of  any  heaven. 
What  would  he  do  in  such  a  place  —  he  with  the  smell  of 
this  world  on  him?  It's  what  he  must  know  now  that  con- 
soles me  —  if  I  can  speak  of  consolation:  the  rottenness  at 
the  core  of  everything  that  he  cared  for.  Could  I  suppose 
he  had  n't  learned  that?  I  make  no  excuses  for  him.  We 
create  ourselves,  I've  no  doubt  in  my  own  mind  about 
that.  We  blame  the  Almighty  and  every  one  else,  but  we 
are  our  own  makers  as  surely  as  night  follows  day.  We 
didn't  ask  to  be  born?  I'm  convinced  that  we  did  — 


CHRISTOPHER  263 

clamoured  to  take  shape,  took  shape  maybe  by  force.  The 
old  know.  You'll  know,  Christopher,  when  you're  as 
old  as  I  am." 

She  stooped  and  kissed  the  dead  face. 

Christopher  turned  away.  When  he  looked  back  she  was 
drawing  up  the  sheet  to  its  place. 

"There,  we'll  leave  him  to  his  sleeping.  It  was  sleep 
that  he  needed.  He'll  sleep  to-night  without  dreams." 

Christopher  went  down  to  the  library,  from  the  depths 
of  which  —  or  was  it  from  the  depths  of  the  great  drawing- 
room  of  ceremony?  —  the  footman  Ventriloquist  had  once 
called  up  strange  voices.  A  friendly  room.  The  walls 
were  lined  with  books  which  no  one  read,  but  the  mellow 
brown  of  old  bindings,  which  was  long  since  the  mellow 
colour  of  the  room  itself,  gave  him  welcome.  A  leather 
screen  sheltered  an  armchair  near  the  fire  from  unlikely 
draughts,  and  invited  him  to  the  hearth.  The  orrery 
standing  near  one  of  the  heavily  curtained  windows,  the 
pair  of  globes  near  another,  the  wheeled  ladder,  the  busts 
(Julius  Caesar,  Nero,  and  Doctor  Johnson),  all  greeted  him. 
He  was  young,  and  the  young  revolt,  as  Mrs.  Herrick  had 
said,  from  thoughts  of  death.  Under  the  spell  of  the  cheer- 
ful room  he  recovered  from  the  gloom  which  had  been 
creeping  over  him. 

Soothed  by  cheerful  influences,  lulled,  "comforted"  in 
every  material  sense,  —  comforted  as  "with  apples,"  —  he 
read  for  an  hour,  put  out  the  lamps,  and  went  upstairs.  He 
was  pleasantly  sleepy  now. 

Passing  the  death-chamber,  however,  on  his  way  to  his 
room,  he  thought  he  heard  a  sound,  and  turned  back.  He 
listened  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  then,  opening  the  door 
very  gently,  he  looked  in. 

A  candle  stood  upon  a  table,  and  by  the  dim  light  of 
it  he  saw  the  figure  of  his  grandmother  kneeling  by  the 
bed.  He  withdrew  himself  at  once,  closing  the  door  as 
noiselessly  as  he  had  opened  it.  But  at  Christ's  "Could  ye 


264  CHRISTOPHER 

not  watch  with  me  one  hour?"  the  disciples  in  Gethsem- 
ane  may  have  felt  as  he  felt  at  that  moment.  He  went 
on  to  his  room,  which  was  near  by,  and  did  not  begin  to 
undress  till  a  soft  sound  or  two  in  the  silent  house  told 
him  at  length  that  the  dauntless  but  stricken  old  woman 
had  gone  to  hers.  He  lay  awake  then,  thinking  of  his  grand- 
mother and  of  the  motionless  form  under  the  sheet.  But 
in  the  morning  he  woke  thinking  of  Cora,  who  —  though 
he  must  not  think  it  yet  —  was  nearer  to  him,  most  surely 
nearer  to  him  now,  than  she  had  been. 


CHAPTER  X 

His  grandmother  sent  for  him.  The  funeral  was  over.  The 
few  relations  there  were  to  gather  had  gathered  and  were 
gone.  His  stepfather,  who,  though  he  was  not  a  relation, 
had  attended  the  funeral,  was  gone  also.  There  remained 
only  his  mother,  who  was  going  to  stay  on  for  a  few  days 
at  Herrickswood,  and  himself,  who  was  going  back  at  the 
end  of  the  week  to  London  and  his  work. 

"His  work!"  his  grandmother  said. 

He  could  always  laugh  at  himself  happily,  and  he 
laughed  then. 

His  grandmother  observed,  he  hoped,  that  he  did  not 
say  Works. 

"You  '11  think  of  your  work  as  your  Works  before  you  've 
done,  for  all  that,  I  daresay,"  she  said,  and  appealed  to  the 
ceiling.  "His  work!  Pens,  ink,  and  paper!  Well,  well. 
We  shall  see,  I  suppose,  what  you  can  do.  Meanwhile  I 
sent  for  you  to  tell  you  what  I  suppose  you  know.  Your 
uncle's  death  will  make  a  considerable  difference  to  you." 

"Yes,  grandmother?" 

"Yes,  Christopher.  I  had  thought  a  dozen  times  of 
making  you  my  heir  in  his  lifetime  —  passing  him  over,  I 
mean.  I  've  an  idea  that  it  was  thought  that  I  had  —  not 
by  you,  I  know,  or  your  mother.  Ollenshaw  's  an  old  ser- 
vant and  a  good,  faithful  soul,  but  she  talks,  and  it's  known 
that  I  can  do  as  I  like.  They  've  seen  my  provocation,  and 
seen  too  what  was  plain  enough  for  every  one  to  see :  that 
I  'm  fond  of  you,  for  all  your  dreamings  and  poesies  and 
artistries  — " 

("Don't  be  so  hard  on  me,  Grandmother  Herrick"; 
interpolation  by  Christopher.  "Hang  it  all,  I'm  not  as 
bad  as  that!" 


266  CHRISTOPHER 

"Every  bit,  and  be  damned  to  you,  my  dear";  counter- 
interpolation  by  Christopher's  grandmother.) 

" — Your  differentnesses  from  all  that  I've  been  accus- 
tomed to.  You  are  different,  —  I  see  it,  if  I  don't  under- 
stand it,  —  of  the  stuff  that  dreamers  are  made  of.  But 
you're  a  healthy  young  animal,  too,  somehow,  and  you're 
a  Herrick  to  look  at,  upstanding  and  clean-limbed  and  well- 
grown  and  good  enough  to  see,  and  I've  loved  you  from 
the  day  you  showed  me  you  were  n't  afraid  of  me." 

"W'ff,"  said  Christopher. 

He,  if  his  grandmother  was  not,  was  a  little  out  of  breath. 
He  stood  before  her  smiling,  his  colour  heightened.  He 
put  the  backs  of  his  hands  to  his  hot  cheeks,  and  waited 
for  her  to  proceed  or  to  finish. 

She  looked  at  him,  well  pleased.  There  was  nothing  self- 
conscious  in  his  action  or  bearing  or  attitude.  He  was  em- 
barrassed—  she  wished  to  embarrass  him!  —  but  was 
standing  what  was  almost  a  test.  He  did  not  flinch  under 
her  onslaught. 

"Men  ought  to  be  fighters,"  she  said ;  "doers,  not  dream- 
ers." 

Christopher  thought  men  might  do  something  with 
dreams.  He  did  not  say  so.  He  just  waited. 

"You  are  'different,' "  she  said,  insisting  as  an  inquisitor 
might  insist.  "Are  n't  you?  Answer  me." 

"  I  've  never  written  a  line  of  poetry  in  my  life,"  he  said. 
"But  things  are  wonderful.  Wonderful,  if  you  see  them." 

"And  you  can  see  them  —  think  you  can,  anyway?" 

"They  are  wonderful,"  he  said,  —  "almost  everything 
is." 

She  had  to  leave  it  at  that;  left  teasing  him,  and  went 
back  to  what  she  had  been  saying. 

"Where  was  I?  Oh,  yes.  Thought  of  passing  him  over. 
Goodness  knows  he  provoked  me.  But  somehow  I  never 
did.  Probably  because  he  dared  to  provoke  me.  So,  though 
you  were  n't  before,  you're  next  now  for  Herrickswood." 

Christopher's  heart,  with  Cora  in  it,  gave  a  jump.  She 


CHRISTOPHER  267 

was  nearer.  He  had  "known,"  of  course,  in  a  sense,  but 
this  putting  into  words  seemed  to  crystallise  into  the  solid- 
ity of  fact  what  had  been  at  most  a  conjecture,  and  one 
which  he  could  hardly  allow  himself  to  form.  He  did  not 
want  Herrickswood,  did  not  covet  it  or  its  rent-roll,  or 
actually  anything  at  all  that  he  had  not,  but  he  could  not 
hear  what  his  grandmother  had  just  told  him  without 
experiencing  excitement.  The  colour  came  more  deeply 
into  his  face. 

He  would  find  Cora  now,  he  knew  —  was  to  find  her. 
Perhaps  he  would  not  even  have  to  seek  her.  He  would 
get  news  of  her  by  miracle,  if  no  other  way. 

"Thank  you,  Grandmother." 

"Wait  till  I'm  dead  to  do  that." 

Christopher  hoped  she  would  have  to  wait  for  her  thanks 
a  long  time. 

"I  believe  you  there,"  she  said,  "or  I  should  n't  have 
told  you." 

She  kissed  him,  and  he  left  her.  Her  lawyers,  who  were 
waiting  for  her,  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  with  her.  Two 
days  later,  when  the  will  which  was  drafted  then  had  duly 
been  drawn  up  and  signed,  she  spoke  of  the  matter  again. 
This  time  it  was  to  Christopher's  mother. 

"  I  don't  want  any  mystery  about  it.  I  shall  tell  people. 
I  don't  want  them  talking  and  wondering,  gauging  chances, 
naming  this  one  and  that,  and  making  surmises.  I  don't 
want  distant  relations  and  people  who '  ve  no  claim  upon  me, 
and  on  whom  I  Ve  no  claim,  paying  court  to  me.  I  choose 
it  to  be  known,  Anne,  that  I  Ve  made  Christopher  my  heir. 
This  is  his  home  now,  as  often  as  he  likes  to  come  to  it.  The 
servants  will  take  orders  from  him  when  he 's  here,  as  from 
a  son  of  the  house.  He  can  have  his  own  rooms,  and  come 
and  go  as  he  likes.  The  oftener  it  is  Come  the  better  I 
shall  be  pleased.  When  it's  Go,  —  though  I  shall  be  wise 
enough,  I  hope,  not  to  say  so,  —  I  shall  always  be  sorry." 

"You're  too  good  to  him,"  said  Anne,  but  she  did  not 
think  so  really. 


268  CHRISTOPHER 

She  was  only  taking  the  change  in  her  son's  prospects 
sensibly  —  with  a  sigh,  all  the  same,  for  the  days  when  her 
son  had  been  dependent  on  her.  Trimmer  may  have  heard 
that  sigh  of  hers  sometimes;  no  one  else. 

"Not  so  much  to  him,  when  all's  said,  as  to  myself," 
said  Christopher's  grandmother.  "He's  a  good  boy,  or, 
if  he  is  n't,  he's  a  mighty  attractive  one.  Do  you  suppose 
I  should  have  forgiven  any  one  else  his  trade?  He's  John 
o'  dreams,  when  I  meant  him  for  a  soldier.  An  'artist,'  — 
don't  they  call  it?  —  when  he  was  to  have  been  a  man.  Not 
that  he  is  n't  that  too.  He's  strong  enough,  and  muscular 
enough,  I  grant  you.  Male  enough,  I  allow.  A  male  with- 
out blemish,  I  've  no  doubt  you  think  him.  But  writers, 
'artists,'  seers!  I  had  my  misgivings,  I  remember,  when 
he  was  a  boy.  You  sat  there  and  crocheted  where  you  're 
sitting  now  with  your  knitting.  And  I  warned  you." 

Anne  pulled  gently  at  her  wool ;  unwound  a  yard  or  two 
to  go  on  with  from  the  ball  which  lay  at  her  feet.  She  was 
knitting  stockings  for  Christopher's  stepfather  —  or  for 
Christopher;  she  was  not  quite  sure  which.  Their  legs 
were  about  the  same  length. 

"  He  seems  to  be  getting  on,"  she  said.  "  They  're  taking 
his  things.  They  write  to  him  for  them.  Some  one  told 
John  the  other  day  that  his  work  is  well  thought  of.  I  for- 
get who,  but  some  one  who  knows  about  these  things. 
John  thinks  he'll  do  something.  He  says  he's  clever." 

"Of  course  he's  clever,"  snapped  Christopher's  grand- 
mother. "Is  n't  that  what's  the  matter  with  him?  Is  n't 
that  what  I'm  deploring?" 

She  whipped  up  an  argument,  set  poor  Anne  defending 
her  son;  finished  by  laughing  at  her. 

"Do  you  think  I'm  not  proud  of  him,  Anne  Hemming? 
Do  you  think  I'm  not  as  proud  of  him  as  you  are  this 
minute?" 

She  got  up  and  went  over  to  a  writing-table,  where  she 
opened  a  drawer. 

"Come  here." 


CHRISTOPHER  269 

Anne  put  down  her  work  and  went  over  to  her,  wonder- 
ing what  she  should  see. 

Half  a  dozen  magazines  lay  before  her.  Anne  knew  them 
well  enough.  Christopher's  name  figured  in  the  table  of 
the  contents  of  each  of  them. 

"  Do  you  think  I  'm  not  watching?  I  daresay  I  have  n't 
all  that  he's  written.  These  are  what  I  've  managed  to  get 
hold  of.  I've  read  them,  too,  these  contributions  of  his, 
though  I  'm  not  a  reader,  as  I  need  n't  tell  you.  I  don't 
understand  all  of  them,  and  I  don't  suppose  I  'm  much  of 
a  judge  if  I  did;  but  I '11  say  this:  even  I  can  see  that  the 
boy's  doing  what  he  had  to  do.  I've  been  rallying  him 
on  not  being  like  the  menkind  I  'm  used  to  —  on  being 
what  I  call  'different.'  He  is  different.  Very  well,  then,  do 
you  suppose,  in  my  heart,  I'd  have  him  different  from 
different?" 

Anne  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  Her  eyes  were  shin- 
ing. She,  like  Christopher  before  her,  felt  a  little  out  of 
breath. 

"You're  —  you're  — "  she  began,  and  got  no  further. 

"A  wicked  old  woman  to  have  made  game  of  you? 
You're  so  easy  to  make  game  of,  the  pair  of  you.  There, 
there  won't  be  so  very  much  for  him  to  come  into  (the 
Herrick  men  —  not  his  father,  of  course  —  but  the  rest  of 
the  crew,  the  precious  stamp  I've  been  accustomed  to, 
saw  to  that!) ;  still,  his  future,  such  as  it  is,  is  assured  him, 
and  he  can  follow  a  poor  trade  with  a  light  heart.  There's 
a  book  on  the  stocks,  I  understand.  My  grandson,  whom 
only  yesterday,  as  it  appears  to  me,  I  saw  sucking  his 
thumb,  —  whom  I  gave  pennies  to  for  holding  his  tongue, 
if  he  could,  for  five  minutes!  A  book,  if  you  please.  A 
novel,  I  suppose.  We'll  see  what  he  makes  of  it." 

"The  dearest  wicked  old  woman,"  said  Christopher's 
mother. 

He  did  n't  make  much  of  it;  was  not  ready  for  it,  per- 
haps; or  had  set  himself  more  than  he  could  achieve.  The 


270  CHRISTOPHER] 

time  came  when  the  precious  book  was  finished.  The  time 
came,  even,  when,  after  many  disappointments,  the  precious 
volume  found  a  publisher.  But  there,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  the  matter  ended.  The  blank  walls  he  had  come 
up  against  had  been  too  much  for  him?  He  had  never 
razed  them  at  all?  Never  seen  over  them,  or  made  gaps 
in  them  large  enough  to  see  through  to  the  other  side? 
Who  shall  say?  The  thing  halted;  was  like  a  billiard  ball 
moving  in  the  right  direction,  but  without  "  legs  "  enough 
to  fulfil  the  player's  intention.  Yet  the  book  was  n't  bad 
—  not  a  book  anyway  to  be  ashamed  of.  A  review  or  two, 
taking  the  trouble  to  see  what  the  author  aimed  at,  praised 
it  discriminatingly.  The  rest,  praising  faintly,  damned  it 
effectually.  It  just  fell  flat;  may  have  deserved  to  fall  flat. 
And  so  in  this,  the  first  round,  Christopher,  upon  whom  in 
other  ways  fortune  was  smiling  so  pleasantly,  saw  himself 
knocked  out  rather  badly. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IT  was  late  autumn  when  his  uncle  died ;  winter  when  his 
book  came  out  and  died,  too;  spring  when  one  morning,  in 
Sloane  Street,  Christopher  came  face  to  face  with  Cora 
St.  Jemison. 

It  might  have  been  expected  that  in  the  two  years  in 
which  he  had  not  seen  her,  her  hold  upon  him,  whatever 
its  nature,  would  have  slackened.  He  had  only  seen  her 
three  times,  all  told;  had  exchanged  words  with  her  but 
upon  one  of  them;  could  hardly  be  said  to  know  her;  it 
needed  but  the  sight  of  her  coming  towards  him  in  her 
white  dress  to  set  him  trembling. 

The  miracle  of  the  foggy  morning  was  repeated.  She 
was  some  thirty  yards  from  him,  when,  under  his  startled 
eyes,  she  turned,  as  before,  from  an  unknown  figure  —  just 
a  girl  at  whom  he  chanced  to  be  looking  (Girl  in  a  Street 
now  for  Girl  in  a  Room)  —  into  the  girl  of  all  girls  in  the 
world,  the  white  lady  of  his  dreams  waking  and  sleeping. 
He  held  his  breath  as  they  approached  each  other.  Would 
she  see  him?  Would  she  remember  him?  Would  she  know 
him? 

She  saw  him.  His  concentration  alone  would  have 
ensured  that,  and  currents  must  have  been  playing  upon 
her  from  his  eyes  as  from  a  battery.  Impossible,  if  you 
were  even  comparatively  sensitive  to  influences,  to  have 
passed  anything  so  "electric"  as  was  Christopher  at  that 
moment,  without  becoming  aware  of  its  presence  and  activ- 
ity. Oh,  yes,  she  saw  him.  Did  she  remember?  He  be- 
lieved she  remembered.  Was  she  going  to  recognise  him? 

He  could  not  let  her  escape  him. 

He  stopped  her. 

"You  don't  remember  me,"  he  said;  wondering  vaguely 


272  CHRISTOPHER 

what  he  should  say  next,  how  if  she  did  not  he  should 
justify  his  action.  His  thoughts,  jumping  the  dinner-party, 
went  back  to  Victoria  Station.  It  was  there  rather  than 
in  Mayfair  that  they  had  really  met. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Ah,  you  don't!"  he  said. 

"On  the  contrary,  I  do.  You  took  me  down  to  dinner  at 
Mrs.  Constaple's.  Some  one  —  some  one  else  —  was  to 
have  taken  me  down.  I  remember  quite  well,  you  see. 
Your  name's  Herrick,  and  you're  not  a  descendant  of  the 
poet." 

"Did  I  tell  you  all  that?" 

"Not  till  I  asked  you.  It  was  my  name  you  wanted  to 
know." 

"That's  more  than  two  years  ago.  I  could  hardly  have 
hoped  you'd  remember." 

She  laughed. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  I  remember  things  that 
happened  longer  ago  than  that." 

He  looked  at  her  slowly. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  do,"  he  said. 

He  could  not  tell  from  her  face.  What  was  in  his  mind, 
what  he  wondered  whether  hers  held  also,  brought  him 
now  to  a  halt.  There  was  a  moment  when  it  seemed  as  if 
he  would  find  nothing  more  to  say.  If  neither  spoke,  they 
would  have  to  separate,  go  their  several  ways ;  and  London 
would  swallow  her  up. 

"  I  've  so  often  wondered  about  you,"  he  said,  rather  des- 
perately. "Wondered  where  you  were,  I  mean,"  —  he 
seemed  under  the  dominion  of  a  word!  —  "and  whether  I 
should  ever  see  you  again." 

It  was  she  now  who  looked  at  him  questioningly.  But 
she  did  not  look  surprised  as  she  might  have  looked,  nor 
as  if  she  resented  what  might  —  if  it  had  been  differently 
said  —  have  seemed  an  impertinence.  It  was  not  an 
impertinence. 

She  was  alone.  The  day  had  come  when  girls  were  be- 


CHRISTOPHER  273 

ginning  to  be  allowed  to  go  about  alone  in  the  morning; 
yet,  looking  at  her,  Christopher  felt  that  her  beauty  was 
of  a  quality  which  must  subject  it  and  her  to  attention  of  a 
kind  not  wholly  desirable.  She  should,  he  felt,  have  had 
the  protection  of  some  sort  of  companionship.  Even  as 
she  talked  to  him  he  saw  with  a  pang  of  jealousy  that 
glances  were  thrown  at  her  —  to  her,  he  could  almost  have 
thought.  What  was  it  about  her?  Something  in  the  won- 
derful whiteness  of  her  skin?  In  the  redness  of  her  lips? 
Something  in  the  shape  of  the  eyelids,  which  were  so  often 
lowered? 

His  memory  had  played  him  no  tricks.  She  was  more 
beautiful,  he  saw,  —  a  sharp  stab  at  his  heart,  —  than  he 
had  thought  her.  Her  beauty  troubled  him. 

"We  were  living  in  London  when  I  met  you,"  she  said. 
"We  had  a  house  then.  My  father  parted  with  it.  I  have 
n't  been  in  London  for  some  time.  I  don't  suppose  I've 
spent  a  month  in  London  in  the  last  couple  of  years." 

' '  You '  ve  been  abroad  ? ' ' 

"We're  generally  abroad  somewhere.  We've  spent  the 
last  two  winters  in  Sicily.  We  have  a  villa  near  Palermo." 

He  could  not  ask  her  questions.  Again  a  halt  threatened. 

"You  did  n't  mind  my  speaking  to  you?" 

"Why  should  I  mind?"  She  looked  at  him  frankly. 
"I've  even  been  hearing  your  name  lately  —  quite  often 
just  lately." 

He  was  afraid  she  was  going  to  speak  of  his  book. 

"I'm  staying  with  Mrs.  Constaple.  She's  by  way  of 
taking  me  out,  as  my  father  can't  be  bothered  to  go  to 
things,  and  —  and  there's  nobody  else.  Mrs.  Constaple 's 
a  friend  of  Mrs.  Herrick,  and  Mrs.  Herrick's  your  grand- 
mother, isn't  she?" 

Christopher's  face  brightened. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "of  course.  Mrs.  Constaple 
knows  my  grandmother.  It  was  through  her  —  my  grand- 
mother, I  mean  —  that  I  came  to  be  asked  to  that  dinner- 
party." 


274  CHRISTOPHER 

"  I  believe  we  used  to  know  Mrs.  Herrick,  too,  once  upon 
a  time.  We've  lost  touch  with  most  people." 

"She  would  remember,"  said  Christopher. 

He  did  not  hear  what  was  said  in  answer  to  that.  A  rail- 
way van  clattering  by  at  the  moment  drowned  the  words. 
"She  might  not  care  to,"  or  " might  not  want  to,"  was  what 
he  believed  she  said.  He  fancied  also  that  it  was  not  wholly 
the  noise  of  the  van  which  prevented  his  hearing.  She 
spoke,  he  thought,  under  her  breath. 

"My  grandmother  never  forgets  her  friends,"  he  heard 
himself  saying. 

"Oh,  I  was  a  child,"  she  said,  smiling.  "It's  years  ago 
—  an  infant." 

At  the  word  "child"  something  stirred  in  Christopher's 
mind.  He  had  a  momentary  recollection  of  a  strange  even- 
ing in  which  his  mother  and  his  other  grandmother  had 
part,  his  aunts  also,  Laura  and  Catherine,  the  dead  soldier, 
Trimmer  in  her  best  dress  and  behaving  oddly.  Child.  Some- 
thing connected  with  the  word.  He  repeated  it  to  himself. 
Child.  A  child.  The  child.  That  was  nearer.  The  Child, 
Habits  of  .  .  .?  Something  like  that.  Customs  of?  Ridi- 
culous. Yet  something  of ,  surely.  Custody  of!  That  was  it. 
Out  of  the  dimness  the  whole  sentence  came  back  to  him. 

"  If  he  dies  (Mr.  St.  Jemison),  I  suppose  she  (Mrs.  St.  J.) 
will  have  the  Custody  of  the  Child." 

Christopher  was  back  with  the  moment  when  he  had 
first  heard  of  Cora's  existence. 

So  Mr.  St.  Jemison,  who  had  been  ill  just  then,  had  not 
died,  —  Christopher  had  wondered  and  forgotten  to  won- 
der about  that,  —  and  had  kept  the  Custody  of  his 
daughter. 

Some  one  else  looked  at  the  girl,  who  appeared  not  to 
see.  Christopher  raged  inwardly.  A  thought  which  sud- 
denly disturbed  him  was  that  just  thus  might  he  himself 
have  been  supposed  to  look  at  her,  on  the  day  when  the 
long  look,  which  had  passed  between  them,  had  seemed  to 
him  to  end  his  search  for  ever. 


CHRISTOPHER  275 

He  could  not  keep  her  standing  on  the  pavement  any 
longer. 

"May  I  walk  with  you  to  the  end  of  the  street?  "he  said. 

He  thought  she  hesitated. 

"I  almost  must,"  he  said. 

She  glanced  at  a  clock  which  she  could  see  from  where 
she  was,  before,  with  an  inclination  of  her  eyelids  rather 
than  her  head,  she  assented.  They  began  to  walk  up  the 
street.  There  was  not  far  to  go.  At  the  top  of  it  he  knew 
he  must  leave  her. 

"  Please,"  he  said,  and  she  turned  to  him.  Her  smile  met 
his  and  she  slackened  her  pace. 

"You  said  you  remembered  things  just  now  —  things 
that  happened  longer  ago  than  two  years." 

'We  all  do,  surely." 

'You  were  just  speaking  generally,  then?  You  had  no- 
th  ng  in  mind  —  no  particular  incident." 

'What  sort  of  incident?" 

'Tell  me,"  he  said,  "had  you  ever  seen  me  before?  Be- 
fore I  met  you  at  Mrs.  Constaple's,  I  mean." 

His  eyes  were  on  his  glove,  which  he  was  buttoning 
(and  unbuttoning  too),  as  he  spoke.  He  looked  from  it  to 
the  other  side  of  the  road  —  not  at  her.  It  was  as  if  he 
wanted  her  to  have  a  clear  field.  There  was  what  seemed 
like  a  long  pause. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  Her  voice  was  quite  steady.  "I  had 
seen  you  before." 

"Where?" 

He  had  lived  too  long  with  an  idea  to  see  the  strange- 
ness, even  the  possible  unfairness,  of  what  he  asked.  So 
much  seemed  (to  him  at  least)  to  depend  upon  her  answers. 
Again  he  did  not  look  at  her  as  he  put  his  question.  Again 
there  was  a  long  pause  —  measured  by  the  tumult  of  emo- 
tions it  was  able  to  contain  for  him.  And  again  she  answered 
him  steadily. 

"I  saw  you  at  Victoria  Station.  I  passed  near  you  and 
you  looked  at  me.  I  was  with  my  father.  You  were  talking 


2;6  CHRISTOPHER 

to  a  little  girl.  There  was  a  lady  in  the  carriage  near  you. 
You  did  n't  speak,  but  you  seemed  to  say  something  to 
me  as  I  passed  you." 

Christopher  swallowed  dryly. 

"What  did  I  say?  No,  I  didn't  speak.  What  did  I 
appear  to  say?" 

But  she  shook  her  head. 

"I  can't  tell  you.  You  see  you  did  n't  say  anything. 
How  could  you  have  said  anything?  You  did  n't  know  me. 
Yet  you  did  seem  to  —  to  ask  something.  Could  you  have 
asked  me  who  I  was?  For  it  seemed  to  me  —  it  was  all 
very  strange  —  that  some  sort  of  answer  was  called  out 
of  me.  It  was  as  if  you  did  know  me,  and  recognised  me,  and 
were  asking  me  if  you  were  n't  right  in  thinking  so." 

Christopher  turned  round  and  faced  her. 

"That's  just  what  was  happening.  I  thought,  and  I  think 
that  I  did  recognise  you." 

It  was  she  now  who  faced  him. 

"But  you'd  never  seen  me  before,"  she  said. 

He  was  silent. 

"But  had  you?"  she  asked  him. 

He  looked  at  her  without  speaking. 

"Had  you?"  she  persisted.  And  he  had  to  answer  of 
course  that  he  had  not. 

"Then  ...   ?"   Her  gesture  completed  her  question. 

They  had  reached  the  top  of  the  street.  There  was  a 
little  crowd  about  the  spot  where  the  omnibuses  stop. 
People  jostling  each  other  jostled  them,  as  one  of  these 
turned  the  corner  of  Knightsbridge.  Before  it  had  pulled 
up  a  cluster  of  human  beings  was  hanging  on  to  the  tail 
of  it,  like  a  dropping  cluster  of  swarming  bees.  A  hurrying 
woman  with  children  pulling  at  skirts  reminded  Chris- 
topher of  the  pulled  and  pulling  women,  mothers,  aunts, 
guardians,  at  the  Crystal  Palace. 

"I  can't  tell  you  here,"  he  said.  "When  can  I  see  you 
again?  You'll  let  me  see  you  again.  I  —  I  must  see  you 
again." 


CHRISTOPHER  277 

It  was  a  hazardous  word  to  use,  as  hazardous  nearly 
as  the  "almost  must"  of  a  few  minutes  before.  But  she 
had  not  shown  any  surprise  at  that,  and  she  showed  none 
now.  It  was  surely  for  his  wanton  torment  that  therefore 
the  thought  must  needs  come  to  him  that  she  was  used  to 
being  spoken  to  in  this  way,  accustomed  to  hearing  people 
like  himself  say  that  they  must  see  her  again,  and  expected 
no  less.  He  could  have  wished  the  word  unsaid.  He  was 
jealous  of  he  knew  not  whom  —  of  every  one  who  saw  her, 
he  supposed. 

"Mrs.  Constaple  is  at  home  on  Sundays,"  she  said. 
"She'll  be  very  glad  to  see  you.  Will  you  come  next 
Sunday?" 

He  was  ashamed  of  himself  in  a  moment,  and  relieved 
unspeakably  also.  What,  then,  did  he  want?  Let  him  be 
reasonable ! 

"Next  Sunday,"  he  said;  and  she  repeated  "Next  Sun- 
day," as  she  held  out  her  hand. 

They  separated.  He  watched  her  till  he  lost  her  in  the 
crowd.  An  impression  that  he  carried  away  was  that  she 
hurried  a  little  as  if  to  make  up  for  lost  time,  and  that  she 
wanted  the  crowd  to  engulf  her. 

Happy  and  unhappy,  unhappy  and  happy:  just  as 
before.  Happy  to  have  seen  her;  unhappy  for  something 
that  the  sight  of  her  did  to  him.  Was  it  always  to  be 
so? 

He  crossed  Knightsbridge  and  turned  into  the  park  at 
Albert  Gate.  He  made,  not  for  the  Row,  where,  young  as 
the  season  was,  people  were  walking  and  sitting  watching 
the  riders,  but,  instead,  for  the  paths  skirting  the  Serpen- 
tine. He  wanted  to  collect  himself,  steady  his  nerves,  give 
his  pulses  time  to  get  back  to  their  normal  beat.  His  tem- 
ples were  throbbing. 

A  few  people  were  walking  beside  the  water.  An  elderly 
woman  of  battered  appearance  was  making  her  toilet  on 
one  of  the  seats.  She  had  taken  off  her  bonnet  and  was 


278  CHRISTOPHER 

combing  her  wisps  of  grey  hair,  singing  to  herself  in  a  thin, 
cracked  voice  as  she  did  so.  Children  with  nurses  in  at- 
tendance were  sailing  their  boats,  and  children  without 
were  wetting  their  feet.  There  was  the  sound  of  the  barking 
of  many  dogs. 

Christopher,  walking  rapidly,  saw  and  heard  without 
consciousness  of  seeing  or  hearing.  He  passed  the  space 
marked  off  for  the  morning  and  evening  bathers,  and  threw 
a  thought  without  knowing  that  he  did  so  to  those  intrepid 
ones  for  whom  the  ice  was  broken  in  the  winter.  One  of  a 
group  of  little  boys  standing  round  a  glass  jam-pot,  in  which 
little  fish  were  swimming,  or  already  floating,  asked  him 
the  time,  only  to  be  met  with  an  uncomprehending  stare. 
He  had  gone  on  half  a  dozen  yards  when  he  realised  that 
some  one  had  spoken  to  him. 

"Yes?"  he  said. 

"Please  will  you  tell  me  the  right  time." 

"Oh.  I  don't  know  it,"  he  said,  speaking  like  one  who 
has  been  roused  out  of  sleep  and  is  even  yet  half  asleep. 
But  he  did  know  it,  or  had  only  to  look  at  his  watch  to 
know  it.  He  drew  his  watch  from  his  pocket  almost  as  he 
spoke. 

"Said  'e  did  n't  know,  and  'im  with  a  gold  watch  and 
chain!  Wool-gatherin'.  Know  what  'e  is?  'E's  a  wool- 
gatherer." 

Inwardly  he  was  widely  awake.  He  was  living  again 
through  the  incident  of  the  recent  meeting,  thinking  of 
what  had  been  said  and  what  had  not  been  said ;  marvelling, 
now,  that  he  had  found  it  possible  to  say  so  much.  What- 
ever the  outcome  of  the  chance  encounter — if  itwas  chance, 
if  chance  could  be  supposed  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
a  thing  which  seemed  as  if  it  must  have  been  ordained  since 
the  beginning  of  time!  —  their  knowledge  of  each  other 
had  that  day  made  notable  strides.  Neither  had  been  re- 
ticent. Admission  had  been  made  for  admission.  Impos- 
sible that  she  should  not  have  perceived  what  lay  behind 


CHRISTOPHER  279 

his  questions.  His  heart  leapt.  That  she  should  have  re- 
membered !  Nay,  that  she  should  have  guessed  at  his  un- 
spoken "Is  it  you?"  and  even  have  supposed  herself  in 
some  sort  to  be  making  answer  to  it  —  to  whatever  it  was 
that  he  was  asking  her!  Here  was  the  marvel  of  all,  here 
the  real  miracle.  Here  also  was  proof,  surely,  if  proof  were 
needed,  that  in  his  wildest  dreaming  he  had  never  been 
astray  for  a  moment.  He  would  know  his  own  when  he 
should  find  it,  and  in  turn  be  known  of  it.  That  had  been  the 
sense  and  the  substance  of  all  his  dreams ;  and  it  was  true. 
He  was  justified  now  of  his  dreaming. 

He  had  passed  under  the  bridge  and  had  paused  at  the 
more  secluded  end  of  the  lake,  where  the  barking  of  dogs 
and  the  voices  of  the  children  reached  him  but  faintly. 
It  was  here  that  he  came  to  himself.  The  first  thing  that 
he  perceived  was  that  the  sun,  shining  on  the  water  before 
him,  had  turned  it  from  ornamental  water  in  a  London 
park  into  a  thing  of  enchantment.  The  second,  that  the 
smell  of  spring  was  in  the  air,  sweetening  it,  softening  it, 
giving  it  intoxicating  properties  for  the  senses  of  the  lover. 
The  third,  that  leaves  were  unfolding,  buds  opening,  birds 
singing  their  spring  song  from  every  tree  and  shrub. 
Christopher,  always  able  to  see  lovers,  in  a  moment  saw 
lovers.  Saw  them,  as  at  Greenwich,  under  the  trees,  when 
he  turned  from  the  water  and  made  for  the  broad  avenues 
towards  Kensington  Palace;  saw  them  walk  close  on  the 
paths,  or  wander  side  by  side  upon  the  grass.  Once  more 
—  as  on  each  indeed  of  the  times  that  he  had  seen  her — the 
white  girl  had  done  something  to  his  eyes.  He  had  never, 
he  thought,  seen  the  Broad  Walk  look  quite  as  it  looked 
to-day ;  nor  the  shadows,  the  wide  stretches  of  green,  the 
blue  veiled  distances.  No  wonder  that  on  so  golden  a  day 
the  glades  should  be  peopled  with  lovers.  Again  he  thought 
of  Watteau,  Lancret,  Fragonard,  the  painters  of  lovers  and 
settings  for  lovers. 

But  he  wished  that  he  had  not  seen  the  looks  thrown 
upon  her  by  passers-by,  and  that  he  could  rid  himself  of  the 


280  CHRISTOPHER 

impression  that,  hurrying,  as  he  believed  she  had  hurried, 
to  make  up  for  lost  time,  she  had  welcomed  the  crowd, 
which,  like  a  cloud,  had  received  her  out  of  his  sight  — • 
had  wished  it  so  to  receive  and  to  hide  her. 


CHAPTER  XII 

Now  began  the  fever  in  earnest.  Christopher,  unable  to 
work  and  unable  to  play,  strained  towards  Sunday  as 
flowers  in  a  dark  place  towards  the  light.  He  had  not  much 
hope  that  the  day  would  bring  him  any  real  satisfaction. 
Mrs.  Constaple's  rooms  would  be  full,  he  supposed,  and  any 
opportunity  for  talk  with  her  guest  —  such  intimate  talk 
at  least  as  he  desired  —  would  have  to  be  snatched  from 
circumstances  which  could  not,  in  the  nature  of  things, 
be  expected  to  offer  them  freely.  But  on  Sunday  he  would 
see  her,  be  in  the  same  room  with  her,  hear  her  voice.  How 
to  bridge  over  the  gulf  from  then  to  Sunday! 

He  paced  the  uneven  floors  of  his  rooms,  while  his 
manuscript  paper  lay  untouched  upon  his  table,  and  his 
ink-bottle  was  silent  because  there  was  no  one  to  hear 
still  small  voices.  The  wings  had  dropped  from  his  pen. 
Pens,  ink,  paper  —  they  were  all  now  the  poor  things  that 
his  grandmother  at  Herrickswood  thought  them!  They 
did  not  matter  any  more.  Nothing  mattered  but  the  con- 
suming need  that  possessed  him. 

Yet  there  were  times  when  he  took  what  he  was  neg- 
lecting into  his  confidence,  as  there  were  times  when  he 
took  the  very  walls  into  his  confidence,  too,  the  deep 
window  sills,  the  old  mouldings,  the  fire-back  even,  the 
friendly  hearth. 

"Wait,"  he  might  have  been  saying  to  his  deserted 
writing  table;  "wait.  I  shall  come  back  to  you.  I  shall 
come  back  to  you  with  more  use  for  you,  for  all  this.  I  've 
failed  you.  It's  I  who  am  failing  you,  not  you  me,  I  know 
that;  but  I  shall  come  back  to  you." 

Yes,  his  eyes  falling  on  his  poor  book,  his  first-born  and 
still-born,  it  was  he  who  had  failed  them.  He  had  come 


282  CHRISTOPHER 

by  them  too  easily ;  had  not  been  ready  for  them ;  had  done 
and  was  doing  them  grave  injustice.  But  (again)  let  them 
wait  and  they  would  see ;  would  see  what  this  neglect  of  them 
would  have  done  for  them ;  what  she  —  the  disturber  of  his 
peace  of  mind  —  would  be  found  to  have  done  for  them. 
One  of  these  days.  One  of  these  fine  days  ... 

Not  in  words,  of  course,  any  of  this:  just  Christopher, 
a  long,  broad-shouldered  figure  in  a  tweed  suit,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets  and  his  throat  rather  bare,  looking  at  things  on 
a  table  at  which  he  ought  to  have  been  sitting. 

To  the  walls  and  the  mouldings  and  the  deep  window 
sills  the  words  he  did  not  say  were  quite  different.  He 
asked  them  how  he  was  to  bear  it.  (This,  while  he  was 
still  "happy.")  How  was  he  to  bear  her  beauty,  and  what 
her  beauty  did  to  him? 

"You,"  to  the  walls  and  the  mouldings,  —  "you,  old 
as  you  are,  never  saw  any  one  like  her.  Oh,  you  've  seen 
in  your  day.  I  know  that.  But  you  have  n't  seen  her." 

He  would  wake  in  the  night  to  stretch  out  his  arms  to 
her.  "  Cora,  come  to  me.  Come  to  me  now."  And  he  would 
sit  up  in  the  darkness  to  listen  for  an  answer.  "  Cora,  can't 
you  hear  me?  Can't  you?  I  should  hear  you  if  you  called. 
If  you  called  me  from  the  other  side  of  the  world,  I  should 
hear  you.  Try  me.  Call  me.  Say  my  name.  Say  it  ever  so 
low.  I  shall  hear  it." 

But  he  did  not  hear  it.  He  heard  instead  the  stealthy 
movements,  or  the  frank  scamperings  of  mice  behind  the 
wainscot ;  their  gnawings ;  their  occasional  squeakings.  There 
was  a  "singing"  mouse  amongst  them,  which  sometimes 
would  be  there,  sometimes  not.  He  had  often  heard  it  in 
his  rooms,  or  in  other  parts  of  the  house;  under  floors,  be- 
hind woodwork  or  plaster.  As  a  good  sleeper,  —  asleep 
from  the  moment,  almost  literally,  that  his  head  touched 
the  pillow  to  that  when  he  was  called  in  the  morning, — 
he  had  seldom  heard  its  chirpings  and  twitterings  in  the 
night  itself;  but,  in  the  nights  that  divided  him  from  the 
first  day  of  the  next  week,  he  grew  familiar  with  the 


CHRISTOPHER  283 

curious  little  sound,  and  would  listen  for  it.  It  took 
its  place,  together  with  noises  from  the  street  and  the 
river,  the  booming  of  Big  Ben  at  intervals,  and  the 
striking  of  other  clocks  near  and  far,  in  the  patchwork 
of  night-sounds  which  were  the  accompaniment  to  his 
silent  callings. 

Or  he  would  get  up,  and,  slipping  on  a  coat  or  a  dressing- 
gown,  go  into  the  next  room  to  one  of  the  windows  and 
look  out  and  breathe  deeply.  He  would  kneel  on  the 
wide  sill  and  rest  his  arms  on  the  frame  of  the  window, 
the  upper  half  of  which  was  open,  and  rest  his  chin  on  his 
wrists,  and  so  stay  motionless.  Or  he  would  open  the  lower 
half,  and,  drawing  his  feet  under  him,  coil  himself  up  on 
the  sill,  and  deliver  himself  so  to  the  soothing  influences 
of  the  night  and  the  airs  of  the  night. 

He  could  see  the  river.  Sometimes  a  barge  would  go  by 
even  in  the  darkness  —  a  moving  patch  of  blackness  with 
a  light;  or  river  police  would  be  abroad  upon  some  errand. 
Unexpected  lights  would  shake  out  their  long  ribands  in  the 
water.  The  ribands  from  permanent  lights  were  steadier 
—  tongues  licking  deeply  into  the  shining  obscurity.  If 
dawn  had  come  when  he  looked  out,  he  would  see  the 
gulls  .  .  . 

It  was  a  Monday  when  he  had  met  Cora  St.  Jemison 
in  Sloane  Street.  He  had  six  nights  and  five  days  to  get 
through  before  the  day  came  which  should  give  him  sight 
of  her  and  speech  with  her  again.  He  might,  of  course,  see 
her  before  that.  What  more  likely,  now  that  he  knew  her 
to  be  in  London?  He  did,  indeed,  catch  a  glimpse  of  her, 
one  afternoon,  driving  with  her  hostess,  and  that  day — 
Thursday  —  was  the  red-letter  day  of  those  that  made 
up  the  rest  of  that  week.  The  carriage  passed  him  in 
Bond  Street;  just  at  the  corner  of  Bruton  Street.  Her  face 
was  turned  from  him  and  towards  Mrs.  Constaple,  who 
was  talking.  His  heart  stood  still  for  a  moment.  But  she 
did  not  see  him.  It  was  a  pain,  and  a  relief  to  him  also, 


284  CHRISTOPHER 

that  she  did  not  see  him.  He  stood  still,  like  his  heart,  and 
looked  after  the  carriage. 

But  this  was  the  only  time  that  he  saw  her,  and,  for 
something  that  he  could  not  have  explained,  he  rather 
avoided  than  frequented  the  parts  of  the  town  in  which  he 
might  have  expected  to  come  across  her.  Such  chance 
glimpses  of  her  took  too  much  out  of  him?  He  could  hardly 
say  that,  since  he  held  that  particular  Thursday  (and  the 
corner  of  Bruton  Street!)  hallowed.  Discounted  the  plea- 
sure of  Sunday  to  which  he  was  looking  so  ardently?  Some- 
thing of  that  sort.  Sunday  had  been  appointed.  To  Sun- 
day then. 

Presently  things  would  change.  The  posts  now  were 
beginning  to  bring  him  the  invitations  which  at  that  time 
of  year  fell  to  him,  as  to  most  of  the  other  young  men  of 
decent  birth  and  respectable  appearance,  from  —  as  it 
seemed  —  the  skies.  His  grandmother,  long  as  it  was  now 
since  she  had  gone  out  or  entertained  in  London,  had  never 
lost  touch  with  her  friends.  To  her,  in  the  first  instance, 
it  may  be  guessed,  was  the  presence  of  his  name  on  the 
lists  of  ball-givers  ascribable.  He  welcomed  now  each 
card  as  he  took  it  from  its  envelope.  At  some  of  the  houses 
to  which  he  was  bidden,  for  functions  which  mostly  pro- 
claimed themselves  Small  or  Very  Small,  he  must  meet  a 
girl  whom  Mrs.  Constaple  was  taking  out.  There  was 
Easter  to  come  before  the  season  actually  began,  but  that 
was' less  than  a  fortnight  off  now,  and  in  a  very  short  time 
the  gaieties  would  be  in  full  swing.  Then  he  might  hope 
to  encounter  her  often.  Then  he  might  take  to  haunting 
the  spots  where  it  was  to  be  expected  that  she  would  be 
found:  the  Park  in  its  hours;  Ranelagh  and  Hurlingham 
in  theirs;  the  opera,  the  ballrooms.  Meanwhile  to  Sun- 
day. .  .  . 

Saturday  night  came.  By  that  time  sleep  had  returned 
to  his  eyes.  He  slept  through  the  whole  of  it.  Came  Sun- 
fiay  morning;  came  Sunday  afternoon;  came  the  moment 


CHRISTOPHER  285 

when  in  the  wake  of  the  butler  he  crossed  the  stone  hall, 
ascended  the  wide,  gentle  stairs,  and  was  shown  into  Mrs. 
Constaple's  drawing-room. 

Mrs.  Constaple,  rising  from  her  place  near  a  tea-table, 
and  gathering  up  an  armful  of  little  dogs  from  her  lap, 
welcomed  him  cheerfully. 

"Very  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said,  and  pulled  at  her  hus- 
band's sleeve,  just  as  she  had  pulled  at  it  on  the  occasion 
of  the  dinner-party.  "  Mr.  Herrick,  my  dear.  You  remem- 
ber Mr.  Herrick.  We  were  talking  of  your  grandmother 
at  lunch.  So  sad  about  poor  Stephen.  You  were  with  her. 
Well,  afterwards,  anyway.  A  great  comfort  to  her,  I  know. 
Sit  down  by  me  here  and  let  me  give  you  some  tea." 

The  rooms  seemed  to  be  full  of  people,  —  men  for  the 
most  part,  —  the  usual  Sunday  roomful  of  visitors.  Cora 
St.  Jemison  was  not  amongst  them,  Christopher  thought 
for  a  moment.  But,  the  next,  he  had  seen  her,  and  had 
seen  that  she  saw  him.  She  was  at  the  far  side  of  the 
room.  She  was  sitting  exactly  where  she  had  sat  when  he 
had  been  hurried  across  to  her  to  be  introduced  to  her  and 
take  her  down  to  dinner. 

Mr.  Constaple  talked  of  Mrs.  Herrick,  and  said  almost 
precisely  what  he  had  said  before,  or  repeated  what  had 
been  said  to  him.  Christopher  waited  for  "Engages  her 
own  keepers,  they  tell  me,"  and  it  came;  with  "Marvel- 
lous!" to  follow. 

"She  must  be  —  let  me  see —  But  we  won't  go  into 
that." 

He  said  this  too. 

Christopher  listened  to  all  with  as  much  attention  as  he 
could  contrive.  He  was  acutely  conscious  of  the  group  at 
the  other  side  of  the  room.  He  was  not  wishing  to  join  it, 
but  hoping  that  presently  it  might  disperse.  He  knew, 
without  seeing,  that  Miss  St.  Jemison,  having  seen  him, 
did  not  look  again  in  his  direction.  He  waited  now  for  his 
hostess  to  speak  of  her,  and  she  did. 

"Told  me  she  had  met  you,"  she  said,  when  the  name  he 


286  CHRISTOPHER 

was  waiting  for  came  round  at  length.  "My  own  girl 
married  last  year,  you  know,  —  Geraldine,  you  remember 
Geraldine  ?  " 

Christopher  had  not  heard  that  her  daughter  was  mar- 
ried. That,  then,  was  how  she  came  to  be  taking  out  some 
one  else's.  He  remembered  Geraldine,  whom  he  was  to 
have  taken  in  to  dinner. 

Mrs.  Constaple  patted  her  dogs. 

"Rather  dears,"  she  said,  "ain't  they?  —  I  meant  to 
have  given  myself  a  rest  this  year,  but,  after  all,  perhaps 
it's  just  as  well  that  I  can't.  —  No,  this  one  has  the  best 
head,"  —  we  may  suppose  Christopher  to  have  been  say- 
ing all  the  right  things,  —  "and  look  at  his  sweet  little 
nose.  Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  appealing?  —  What 
was  I  telling  you?  Oh,  to  be  sure.  Now  I  shall  have  to 
go  to  things,  and  I  daresay  if  I  had  n't,  I  should  only  have 
got  lazy;  stuck  at  home,  you  know,  and  worn  tea-gowns 
and  lost  my  figure.  —  Yes,  my  angels,  you  shall  have  your 
biscuits." 

It  was  the  dogs  after  that  for  five  minutes. 

"Besides,"  she  said  then,  as  if  there  had  been  no  inter- 
ruption, "I  was  sorry  for  her." 

Christopher  winced. 

''And  besides,  —  that's  enough,  preciouses;  not  any 
more,  —  if  I'm  not  greatly  mistaken  she 's  going  to  do  me 
credit  and  be  rather  a  success.  You  've  no  idea  how  much 
she  seems  to  be  admired." 

Christopher,  arresting  a  glance  in  her  direction,  feared 
that  he  had. 

But  the  moment  came.  Mrs.  Constaple,  having  de- 
cided that  the  dogs  had  had  enough  biscuits,  must  needs 
straightway  present  one  more  to  the  angel  with  the  best 
head  and  the  sweet  little  nose.  The  other  two  angels,  per- 
haps, were  jealous?  Be  this  as  it  may,  in  an  instant  three 
little  angels  were  at  each  other's  sweet  little  throats,  and 
hell  ("to  scale")  was  let  loose  on  the  hearthrug.  When  the 
tumult,  the  shrillest  if  the  smallest  imaginable,  was  over, 


CHRISTOPHER  287 

and  the  commotion,  which  was  wholly  disproportionate, 
had  subsided,  and  three  laps  for  one  held  the  three  little 
fighters,  the  distribution  of  the  people  in  the  room  was 
changed,  as  the  groupings  of  colours  are  changed  at  the 
turning  of  a  kaleidoscope.  Christopher  was  then  to  be 
found  sitting  by  Cora  St.  Jemison,  whose  lap  held  one  of 
the  little  animals,  upon  a  distant  sofa.  He  had  manoeuvred 
for  this,  of  course,  but,  with  a  glow  for  the  pain  at  his  heart, 
he  knew  that,  if  she  had  not  helped  him,  she  must  at  least 
have  acquiesced  in  his  endeavour. 

"  I  want  to  go  back  to  what  we  were  talking  of  on  Mon- 
day," he  said. 

He  was  extraordinarily  happy  as  he  sat  down  beside  her. 
All  that  he  had  thought  of  and  dreamed  of  seemed  as  if  it 
must  be  coming  true.  She  did  not  answer  him  at  once. 

"  I  never  want  to  go  back,"  she  said,  then.  "  I  want  to  go 
on." 

"Oh,  I  want  to  go  on,"  Christopher  said.  "That's  why 
I  want  to  go  back  —  that  we  may  go  straight  on  from 
where  we  were  then." 

"Where  were  we  then?" 

"At  Victoria  Station." 

She  was  wearing  a  black  dress,  which  emphasised  the 
exquisite  fairness  of  her  skin.  Her  hands,  the  beautiful 
hands  which  he  had  noticed  before,  lay  in  her  lap  beside 
the  little  dog. 

"Well?  "she  said  gently. 

"  I  'm  —  I  'm  waiting  for  leave  to  go  on." 

They  were  almost  isolated  where  they  were.  A  grand 
piano,  cumbered  with  ornaments,  drapery,  photographs, 
flowers,  —  the  piano  of  a  thousand  unmusical  drawing- 
rooms,  —  divided  them  from  the  others.  The  backs  of  the 
frames  which  held  the  photographs  were  towards  them. 
He  knew  exactly  what  the  photographs  themselves  would 
be:  two  or  three  signed  likenesses  of  minor  royalties;  a 
celebrity  or  so;  a  singer,  perhaps,  who  had  sung  at  Mrs. 
Constaple's  concerts ;  Geraldine  in  her  drawing-room  dress ; 


288  CHRISTOPHER 

her  mother  in  hers;  an  "enlargement"  on  porcelain  in 
colour  —  probably  Mr.  Constaple's  mother. 

Under  what  he  was  saying,  under  what  he  was  thinking, 
Christopher,  grateful  for  the  screen  which  these  things 
afforded  him,  was  conscious  of  feeling  that,  none  the  less, 
they  should  all  have  been  cleared  away.  In  imagination 
he  saw  the  piano  standing  free. 

And  all  the  time  he  saw  the  lovely  quiet  hands  on  the 
black  dress,  and  felt  the  smart  which  their  loveliness 
caused  him.  He  wanted  to  hide  his  face  in  them. 

"You  don't  say  anything,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do,"  she  said  quickly.  "But  I  don't  know 
quite  what  to  say  —  what  you  expect  me  or  want  me  to 
say.  I  think  I  have  said  a  good  deal.  I  did  the  other  day. 
If  I  have  n't  told  you  to  say  what  is  in  your  mind,  I  have  n't 
told  you  not  to.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  I  did  tell 
you  not  to." 

"No,"  he  said;  "don't  do  that." 

"Then  of  course  I  want  to  know.  I  shouldn't  be  a 
woman  if  I  did  n't  want  to  know,  for  instance,  what  you 
meant  the  other  day  when  you  said,  "That's  just  what  was 
happening.'  Do  you  remember  saying  that?  How  could 
you  recognise  me  if  you  had  never  seen  me  before?" 

"  I  think  I  have  been  looking  for  you  most  of  my  life." 

"But  you  told  me  you  had  n't  seen  me  till  that  day!" 

"Looking  for  some  one,  then." 

She  shook  her  head  in  token  that  she  did  not  understand. 
How  should  she?  He  did  not  understand,  himself.  But 
he  knew  that  what  he  was  telling  her  was  true. 

"But  me?"  she  asked. 

"You  —  if  it  turned  out  to  be  you." 

She  looked  at  him  contemplatively.  He  was  leaning  for- 
ward, his  hands  clasped  round  one  knee,  his  eyes  on  her 
face.  He  had  himself  well  in  control. 

"  No.  I  'm  quite  sure  I  don't  understand,"  she  said  then. 
"  But  I  want  to,"  she  added,  a  moment  later.  "  I  'm  trying 
to.  I  even  think  I  could." 


CHRISTOPHER  289 

" I'm  sure  you  could,"  said  Christopher.  " Understand- 
ing comes  into  it.  I  've  been  looking  for  some  one  whom, 
—  well,  —  whom  I  should  know  when  I  met  —  whom  I 
should  recognise  as  the  person  I  was  looking  for." 

It  must  have  sounded  all  rather  involved  —  an  argu- 
ment indeed  in  a  circle.  He  did  not  even  make  grammar 
of  it. 

"That  was  to  be  the  sign  —  your  knowing?" 

He  did  not  answer  her  in  words.  He  looked  at  her 
steadily. 

"And  you  thought  you  recognised  this  person  in  me?" 

"I  did  recognise  this  person  in  you." 

He  said  that  so  low  that  she  hardly  heard  it,  but  she 
did  hear  it.  Neither  said  anything  then  for  a  moment  or 
two.  Christopher  did  not  shift  his  position.  She  did  not 
even  move  her  hands.  He  wondered  what  she  would  think 
if  she  knew  how  the  sight  of  them  affected  him. 

"Before  I  met  you  I  was  looking  for  you,  and  since  — 
I've  done  nothing  else.  Where  were  you  going  that  day 
when  I  saw  you  starting  for  somewhere  from  Victoria?" 

"Marienbad,  probably.  We  generally  go  there  at  that 
time  of  year.  No.  I  remember.  We  went  to  Wiesbaden 
that  summer." 

"I  went  there!"  said  Christopher. 

So  they  talked.  Outside  were  the  Constaples  and  their 
visitors.  A  door  was  opened,  and  newcomers  were  an- 
nounced and  came  in.  But  they  settled  down.  Some  one 
got  up  to  go.  But  even  he  went.  No  one  had  come  over 
yet  to  disturb  the  two  sheltered  by  the  photographs  and 
the  piano.  Such  luck  could  not  last.  Presently  some  one 
would  get  up  who  would  want  to  bid  Miss  St.  Jemison 
good-bye.  Or  some  one  who  wanted  to  talk  to  her  would 
intrude  himself  upon  them.  So  far  she  herself  had  shown 
no  inclination  to  move. 

"Then  you  did  know  about  Wiesbaden?" 

"No.  That's  just  it.   I  went  to  heaps  of  places.   I  did 


290  CHRISTOPHER 

n't  know  where  to  begin.  Think."  He  smiled  gravely. 
"The  whole  of  Europe  was  before  me  to  choose  from — • 
the  whole  world,  for  that  matter.  But  there  were  likely 
places.  Homburg  seemed  one  of  them.  Wiesbaden  another. 
I  tried  Trouville  too." 

"Do  you  really  mean,"  she  said,  "that  you  really  went 
about?" 

Christopher  thought  of  the  long-suffering  Harringay  as 
he  nodded. 

But  now  came  the  interruption.  Mrs.  Constaple  was 
seen  bearing  down  on  them.  She  wanted  her  third  little 
angel  to  show  to  Lady  Somebody,  in  tow,  who  had  little 
angels  of  her  own;  and  Christopher  (in  parenthesis)  was 
introduced  to  Lady  Somebody,  who  remembered  (also  in 
parenthesis)  that  she  had  known  his  father  and  mother  in 
India,  and  for  five  minutes  all  was  dogs  and  India.  By  the 
time  Christopher,  who  was  given  the  angel  with  the  second- 
best  head  to  hold,  had  disentangled  himself,  some  one  else 
had  taken  his  place  on  the  sofa. 

He  waited  for  a  minute  or  two  on  the  chance  of  getting 
back  to  it,  but  in  vain.  What  he  had  looked  forward  to  so 
fervently  all  the  week  was  over. 

He  went  to  say  good-bye  to  Mrs.  Constaple. 

One  solace  was  vouchsafed  him. 

"You  must  dine  with  us  one  night  and  do  a  play.  Tues- 
day?" 

Her  husband  reminded  her  that  she  was  dining  out  on 
Tuesday. 

"Wednesday,  then.  No,  not  Wednesday.  Perhaps  it 
would  be  better  to  write.  Yes,  I  '11  write  to  you.  Have  I 
your  address?  Cloisters  Street,  Westminster,  number 
three.  I  '11  put  it  down." 

Would  she  remember  it?  He  could  hardly  count  on  her 
memory,  he  told  himself.  Well,  he  would  take  the  precau- 
tion of  leaving  a  card  in  the  hall  as  he  went  out.  But  he 
wished  he  could  have  seen  her  write  down  his  address  then 
and  there. 


CHRISTOPHER  291 

"Good-bye,  and  always  on  Sundays,  and  very  often 
about  tea-time  any  other  day.  Remember  me  to  your 
grandmother  if  you  should  be  writing  to  her." 

"And  me"  (cordialest  Constaples!).  " Greatest  admira- 
tion for  your  grandmother.  Always  had.  Not  many  of 
her  school  left." 

Christopher  went  over  to  say  good-bye  to  Miss  St. 
Jemison.  She  rose  and  came  towards  him  a  little,  leaving 
the  usurper  of  his  place  on  the  sofa. 

"  I  suppose  I  Ve  said  odd  things  to  you  to-day,"  he  said 
as  he  put  out  his  hand.  "I  — want  to  thank  you  for  let- 
ting me  say  them." 

He  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  his  evening.  The  sing- 
ing mouse  sang  in  the  small  hours  that  night,  and  he  heard 
it,  with  the  telling  of  the  hours  themselves  by  Big  Ben.  '" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

USELESS  to  try  to  work.  He  went  back  to  his  walking. 
Chelsea  always  called  to  him  when  he  was  restless.  And 
he  went  to  Chelsea  three  times.  He  would  make  for  the 
Embankment  and  pace  it  from  end  to  end.  Chelsea  held 
the  river.  Westminster  held  it  too,  but  Chelsea  more  inti- 
mately. He  would  lean  upon  the  wall  and  look  .  .  . 

When  the  tide  was  low,  as  it  was  upon  two  of  these  occa- 
sions, and  the  stony  foreshore  above  the  mud  was  to  be 
seen,  with  tiny  waves  breaking  on  it,  he  would  succeed  in 
feeling  he  was  near  the  sea.  A  boy  or  two,  paddling,  lifting 
the  larger  stones  even,  as  if  little  crabs  might  be  found 
under  them,  once  helped  the  illusion.  He  wanted  the  sea. 

Or  he  would  stand  and  look  at  the  old  church  and  its 
monuments,  and,  for  some  easily  traceable  association  of 
ideas  connecting  tombs  with  urns,  weeping-willows,  and  a 
picture  worked  in  silk,  think  of  Charlotte  and  Werther. 

For  the  second  time  in  his  life  he  felt  lonely;  had  the 
sense  of  giving  and  of  always  having  to  give  —  always 
being  doomed  to  give  —  more  than  he  received  or  would 
ever  receive.  Yet  he  had  plenty  of  friends,  if  it  was  com- 
panionship that  he  needed;  and  if  love,  loving  even  as  he 
did  —  never,  that  is,  knowing  what  it  was  to  be  wholly 
out  of  love  at  any  period  —  it  is  doubtful  whether  (in  bulk 
at  any  rate,  if  one  may  speak  so  of  love !)  he  was  not  offered 
or  given  more  than  he  gave.  Hearts  that  he  never  dreamed 
of  were  sore  for  Christopher. 

He  saw  the  days  slip  by:  Monday,  Tuesday,  Wednesday, 
watching  the  posts.  Each  time  that  he  came  in  he  scanned 
the  letters  that  lay  on  the  hall  table,  for  a  letter,  or  looked 
to  see  Mrs.  Rommage  with  a  telegram  in  an  anxious  hand. 


CHRISTOPHER  293 

His  mother  wanted  him  to  go  home  for  Easter,  and  Easter 
was  creeping  upon  him.  Here  was  Wednesday,  the  middle 
of  the  week,  and  he  had  not  let  her  know  whether  or  not 
to  expect  him;  Thursday;  hope  died  within  him.  His  ad- 
dress, it  was  plain,  was  forgotten,  or  the  tentative  invita- 
tion, if  not  he  himself,  and  so  all  three.  He  packed  his  bag 
and  went  down  to  Datchet. 

Fatima,  a  tall  girl  now  with  soft  romantic  eyes  and  a  thick 
orderly  pig-tail,  met  him  at  the  station  in  the  governess 
cart,  and  with  the  fat  pony  which  even  her  timid  mother 
could  drive.  She,  therefore,  as  having  the  first  opportunity, 
was  the  first  to  see  that  something  preoccupied  or  disturbed 
him.  Time  was  when  she  would  have  flung  "Your  White 
Girl,  I  suppose"  in  his  teeth,  and  waited  snorting  to  get 
to  grips  with  him.  Now,  her  outlook  changing,  she  wanted 
to  be  the  Understanding  Sister,  the  Consoler,  the  Unselfish 
Confidant.  "  Tell  me  your  troubles,"  was  what  she  wanted 
to  say ;  "pour  your  sorrows  into  my  ear.  /  shall  understand. 
/  shall  sympathise.  Don't  be  afraid.  Tell  me  everything." 
What  she  did  say  was,  "I  suppose  Datchet  looks  very 
small  after  London,"  with,  "Still,  the  peacefulness  of  the 
country  might  be  a  great  help  to  one,  I  should  think,  if 
one  felt  one  wanted  help,"  just  to  show  him  that  she  was 
there,  so  to  speak,  if  he  should  be  disposed  to  open  his 
heart  to  her. 

There  was  something  about  him:  gloom,  absence  of 
mind,  nerves  on  edge.  The  ordinary  cheerfulness  of  the 
holiday-maker  who  comes  home,  of  the  welcomed  arrival 
even,  seemed  an  effort  to  keep  up. 

Anne  saw  it  next,  and  saw  it  at  once.  As  she  kissed  him 
and  received  his  kiss  she  knew  that  his  heart  or  his  thoughts 
were  roving.  His  stepfather  saw  nothing,  and  said, "Non- 
sense," later,  to  his  wife's  half-spoken  question.  Trimmer, 
by  Saturday,  had  observed  to  her  mistress  that  Master 
Christopher,  or  Mr.  Christopher,  as  of  course  she  should 
say,  did  not  seem  quite  Himself. 


C94  CHRISTOPHER 

It  was  Christopher's  mother  then  who  said,"  Nonsense." 

Well,  Good  Friday  —  except,  as  Fatima  said,  for  the 
Buns  —  is  not  a  cheerful  day.  It  might  have  been  that. 

The  only  clue  was  the  "No  more  posts,  I  suppose," 
which  escaped  him  after  breakfast  that  morning,  and  did 
not,  needless  to  say,  escape  his  mother. 

It  was  a  letter,  then.  But  she  continued  to  observe  him. 

His  appetite  was  poor.  He  played  with  his  food  rather 
than  ate  it.  He  might  have  been  a  High  Churchman  fast- 
ing. 

Anne,  despite  her  theory,  could  n't  see  that  in  absolute 
silence. 

"I  thought  you  liked  mutton  cutlets." 

This  at  luncheon,  after  seeing  him  eat  nothing  to  speak 
of  at  dinner  the  night  before,  and  nothing  to  speak  of  at 
breakfast. 

"So  I  do." 

' '  Then,  my  dear  boy  —   And  you  ate  no  salt  fish  either." 

Christopher  said  that  she  would  not  wish  to  see  him  grow 
fat.  Even  Ancebel  had  seen  the  error  of  fatness. 

"Salt  fish  would  n't  make  you  grow  fat.  Cutlets  would  n't 
make  you  grow  fat." 

She  made  a  sign  that  the  cutlets  should  be  handed  to 
him  again.  But  Christopher  shook  his  head  to  them. 

He  behaved  little  better  at  dinner,  though  he  was  care- 
ful to  make  a  pretence  of  helping  himself  to  most  of  the 
dishes  which  were  offered  to  him.  He  had  "food  to  eat 
that  they  knew  not  of."  Anne  was  dimly  conscious  of  some 
such  conviction  at  one  period  of  his  boyhood.  It  was  bitter 
food  then,  and  certainly  it  could  not  be  nourishing. 

So  passed  Good  Friday  and  Saturday.  With  Sunday 
came  a  change.  If  it  was  a  letter  that  he  wanted,  Easter 
Sunday's  post  must  have  brought  it.  He  came  down 
looking  radiant. 

He  had  got  his  letter.  Before  he  had  opened  it,  one  of 
three  which,  in  Mrs.  Rommage's  anxious  scrawl,  had  been 


CHRISTOPHER  295 

redirected  to  him  from  Cloisters  Street,  he  knew  that  he 
had  got  it  at  last.  But  more,  far  more  than  this.  For  (and 
it  is  here  that  we  have  Christopher!)  in  the  handwriting 
in  which,  under  his  landlady's  wavering  erasures,  it  had 
in  the  first  instance  been  addressed,  he  had  recognised, 
if  you  please,  the  handwriting  of  one  whose  handwriting 
he  had  never  yet  seen.  That  he  had  not  seen  what  he  re- 
cognised mattered  nothing,  we  may  be  sure,  to  Christopher, 
who  was  particularly  good  at  such  recognisings !  The 
"Christopher  Herrick"  which  stood,  and  the  "3  Cloisters 
Street"  which  had  been  crossed  out,  were  written,  he  de- 
cided, —  could  have  been  written!  —  by  no  one  but  Cora 
St.  Jemison.  He  broke  the  seal  confidently,  and  was  not 
mistaken. 

He  was  bidden  to  dinner  the  following  Wednesday. 
Mrs.  Constaple,  Cora  wrote,  had  mislaid  his  address.  She, 
Cora,  had  just  found  it  in  the  little  dogs'  basket,  —  chewed 
but  decipherable,  —  and  wrote,  for  her  hostess,  to  explain, 
and  to  hope  that  Wednesday  would  find  him  free. 

So  once  more  he  had  something  to  live  for  —  a  day 
towards  which  to  press,  and  all  was  well.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
been  given  the  freedom  of  the  house.  The  invitation  was 
not  so  much  an  invitation  to  dinner  on  a  particular  night 
as  an  authority,  without  which  he  felt  he  could  not  have 
gone  there  again.  Without  it,  one  invitation  acting  and 
reacting  upon  another,  the  "Come  agains"  and  "Come 
soons"  of  the  Constaples'  farewell  to  him  would,  he  felt, 
have  availed  him  nothing.  He  could  not  have  risked  the 
appearance  of  wishing  to  remind  them  of  something  which 
had  been  forgotten.  Well,  neither  it  nor  he  had  been  for- 
gotten at  all !  The  scatter-brained  lady  —  unless  it  was 
his  card  which  her  little  dogs  had  chewed  —  must  even  have 
committed  his  address  to  paper.  Blessings  upon  her; 
blessings  for  cursings.  And,  in  the  end  as  at  the  beginning, 
it  was  by  the  hand  of  Cora  St.  Jemison  that  this  good 
knowledge  all  came  to  him. 

So,  on  many  counts  upon  that  Easter  morning  he  went 


296  CHRISTOPHER 

his  way  rejoicing,  a  letter  in  a  pocket  over  his  heart.  All 
through  church,  to  which  he  went  with  the  rest  of  his 
family,  he  was  conscious  of  its  presence  there.  He  pressed 
it  to  him  when  he  knelt,  and  during  the  sermon  folded  his 
arms  in  such  a  way  that  he  could  feel  it  with  his  hand. 
I 

For  the  rest  of  his  stay  he  was  seen  to  be  in  his  usual 
health  and  spirits.  He  rode  with  his  stepfather  or  Ance- 
bel,  walked  or  drove  with  his  mother,  found  time  to  sit 
sometimes  in  the  work-room  with  Trimmer  (making  her 
sewing  smell,  as  she  said,  of  smoke!),  and  was  happy. 

But  Anne,  confirmed  in  her  conjectures,  was  vaguely 
troubled.  A  sentence  once  spoken  by  Mrs.  Herrick  rang 
persistently  in  her  ears:  "He'll  be  falling  in  love  one  of 
these  days,  and  then  he'll  have  you  by  the — "  Well, 
what  the  sentence  rang  in!  Anne  was  not  sure  that  "the 
throat"  would  not  have  finished  the  dreadful  prophecy 
more  aptly. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

HE  went  back  to  London,  then,  leaving  his  mother  reas- 
sured on  the  score  of  his  health,  but  just  a  little  bit  uncom- 
fortable, and  just  a  little  bit  hurt  too.  Why  she  should 
have  felt  hurt  she  would  not  have  found  it  easy  to  say.  The 
time  had  come  long  since  when,  in  common  with  every 
mother,  she  had  had  to  realise  that  she  did  not,  and  could 
not,  know  the  whole  of  the  life  of  her  son.  He  had  had  a 
separate  existence  since  the  day  he  had  thoughts  to  put 
into  words.  It  was  his  stepfather  who  had  helped  her, 
somehow,  to  understand  him.  But  she  wished  he  could 
have  told  her,  as  she  was  left  to  guess,  that  some  one  had 
come,  or  seemed  likely  to  come,  into  his  life  —  that  she 
could  have  heard  from  his  lips  no  more  than  she  had  seen 
with  her  eyes:  no  more,  that  is,  than  that  if  he  was  happy 
he  had  been  unhappy ;  and  he  might  have  trusted  her  not 
even  to  ask  why.  For  her  vague  sense  of  anxiety  —  un- 
comfortableness  —  she  had  no  particular  reason  to  give 
herself. 

Christopher  left  in  the  morning.  She  saw  him  off  at  the 
station.  And  then,  for  discipline  as  much  as  exercise,  — 
partly  even  to  combat  the  feelings  described,  —  she  walked 
in  to  Windsor,  where  there  was  always  some  shopping  to 
be  done.  As  she  crossed  the  iron  bridge  midway,  she  too 
looked  at  the  river  for  solace.  The  water  that  she  looked 
at  would  in  time  flow  through  London,  towards  which 
Christopher  also  at  that  moment  was  travelling.  It  would 
flow  through  Westminster  even,  within  sight  of  some  of 
the  windows  of  Cloisters  Street. 

At  the  thought  she  leaned  towards  it. 

Who  is  she,  Christopher,  who  is  going  to  take  you  from 
me?  Ah,  you  think  she  won't  take  you  from  me,  but  she 


298  CHRISTOPHER 

will.  I  know  her,  whoever  she  is,  and  what  is  in  her  heart. 
She'll  love  you,  I  don't  doubt.  Set  your  mind  at  rest  about 
that.  But  you  '11  never  be  to  her  what  you  've  been  to  me. 
How  could  you  be,  when  you  're  part  of  me,  flesh  of  my 
flesh?  Your  father  gave  you  to  me.  Don't  think  I  've  for- 
gotten him.  There  is  n't  a  day  even  now  that  I  forget  .  .  . 

The  thought  trailed  away.  She  came  back  to  it  upon 
another. 

But  don't  think  from  this  that  I  don't  love  John  Hem- 
ming. You  gave  me  John  Hemming,  do  you  know  that? 
They  both  understand.  Your  father  does  if  he  knows, 
and  he  does  know,  I  'm  sure;  and  John  knows  —  oh,  John 
knows,  my  dear  good  John.  Your  father  gave  me  a  male 
child  into  my  arms  .  .  . 

The  pause  on  the  bridge  took  meaning.  She  leant  closer 
to  the  iron,  closer  to  the  water.  So  may  the  Blessed  Dam- 
ozel  have  leaned  upon  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven. 

And  you  love  her,  Christopher,  whoever  she  may  be. 
You  love  her  more  than  all  of  us.  For  her  sake  you'll 
leave  us  all  gladly.  The  great  mystery,  Christopher:  "For 
this  cause  shall  a  man  leave  his  father  and  mother"  .  .  . 

Not  in  words  was  Anne's  heart  outpouring  itself  —  cer- 
tainly not  in  these.  Her  spirit,  like  Christopher's  to  the 
walls  of  his  room,  unburdened  itself  silently.  A  woman 
stands  on  a  bridge  and  looks  down  into  the  flowing  stream. 

Tell  me.  Tell  me  yourself.  Don't  let  me  hear  it  from 
others.  Tell  me  what  you  can.  Tell  me  when  you  can. 
Only  tell  me. 

Silence,  more  silence.  The  thoughts  come  at  intervals 
like  the  sentences  spoken  from  the  Table  at  the  Sacrament 
of  the  Lord's  Supper. 

A  cart  was  to  be  seen  along  the  road,  and  a  little  farther 
on,  an  old  man  afoot.  Both  were  coming  in  her  direction. 
She  became  conscious  of  their  approach.  In  another  mo- 
ment she  must  move. 


CHRISTOPHER  299 

Oh,  Christopher,  my  son,  my  first-born  ..." 

But  that,  if  it,  too,  was  unvoiced,  was  a  cry;  and  tears 
gathered  in  Anne's  eyes. 

The  cart  was  quite  near  now.  She  took  out  her  hand- 
kerchief and  dried  her  eyes.  She  turned  quickly  to  the 
river  and  addressed  it  once  more.  She  was  sending  her 
message :  — 

"Tell  him,"  she  said,  this  time  forming  words  with  her 
lips,  and  even  speaking  them  under  her  breath,  —  "tell 
him  that  from  my  heart  I  wish  him  the  wish  of  his  heart. 
If  it's  good  for  him,  though  it  shall  pierce  mine,  I  wish 
him  the  wish  of  his  heart." 

The  impulse  was  satisfied.  She  continued  her  way. 
To  the  cart  and  the  old  man,  when  they  passed  her,  she 
was  just  a  lady  walking  to  Windsor,  and  stopping  on  the 
bridge,  as  she  crossed  it,  to  look  at  the  view. 

Christopher,  shown  into  Mrs.  Constaple's  drawing-room 
that  evening,  found  it  empty.  He  had  been  asked  for  seven, 
as  seats  had  been  taken  for  a  play,  and  had  hoped  by  good 
fortune  to  find  himself  the  first  to  arrive.  He  had  an  idea 
that  Mr.  Constaple  would  not  be  of  the  party,  that 
Mrs.  Constaple  could  not  fail  to  be  late,  and  that  the 
odds  were  against  the  punctuality  of  any  one  else  who 
might  be  expected.  In  these  circumstances  it  might 
happen  that  he  would  have  a  word  with  Miss  St.  Jemison 
alone. 

Things  fell  out  as  he  hoped.  The  door  had  hardly  closed 
behind  the  servant  when  it  was  opened  again,  and  Cora 
St.  Jemison  came  in. 

Even  now  he  could  not  meet  her  without  a  tremor.  She 
came  towards  him  in  her  white  dress. 

Thus  beautifully  did  the  evening  begin.  After  sundown 
the  spring  days  grew  chilly,  and  a  fire  was  burning  cheer- 
fully in  the  grate.  They  shook  hands  and  went  towards 


300  CHRISTOPHER 

the  hearth,  where  they  stood  presently,  each  with  an  arm 
against  the  mantelpiece. 

She  had  been  with  her  father  for  Easter,  she  told  him 
—  at  Brighton.  And  he,  what  had  he  been  doing  with  him- 
self? He  began  to  tell  her. 

As  he  spoke  of  his  mother,  he  tried  to  see  the  two  to- 
gether, and  found  suddenly  that  he  could  not.  One  or  other 
receded  in  his  attempt.  This  was  strange,  for  he  could  al- 
ways call  up  the  image  of  his  mother  in  his  mind's  eye  — 
always!  Now,  looking  at  Cora,  he  could  not.  He  looked 
away  and  could  see  her  —  visualise  her  at  once;  looked 
back  and  she  was  gone.  Or,  looking  away,  he  could  visualise 
the.  girl  in  her  white  dress,  see  her  to  minutest  detail,  and 
then  (blotting  out  her  image,  however!)  see  his  mother. 
The  two  together  he  could  not  see. 

Something  came  over  the  moment  to  cloud  it. 

She  must  have  seen,  for  he  saw  her  looking  at  him  ques- 
tioningly. 

He  shook  his  head  as  if  she  had  put  her  question  into 
words. 

"You  looked  as  if  you  saw  ghosts." 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  the  cloud,  if  it  was  a  cloud,  dis- 
persed. Cora  St.  Jemison  had  that  in  her  speaking  voice 
which  always  made  people  ask  if  she  sang.  Christopher, 
hearing  it,  remembered  that  he  had  wanted  to  ask  her 
this  the  first  time  he  heard  her  speak,  and  he  wanted  to 
ask  it  now. 

"  I  don't  see  ghosts.  I  'm  not  the  kind.  I  —  I  was  think- 
ing that  when  you  were  there  you  prevented  one's  seeing 
any  one." 

He  may  have  known  that  he  could  say  these  things  with- 
out impertinence. 

"But  if  there  was  no  one  else  to  see?"  she  said,  smiling. 
"You  were  seeing  ghosts,  you  see." 

"Perhaps  I  was  trying  to,"  said  Christopher. 

She  appeared  to  think  this  over  for  a  moment,  but  in  the 
end  dismissed  it. 


CHRISTOPHER  301 

"You  were  telling  me  what  you  were  doing,"  she  re- 
minded him  presently. 

There  was  so  little  to  tell.  If  he  had  told  her  what  he 
had  really  been  doing  he  must  have  said,  "Marking  time. 
Kicking  my  heels.  Waiting  for  this  moment." 

Without  many  words  he  gave  a  sufficiently  recognisable 
impression  of  the  quiet  life  in  the  Buckinghamshire  village. 
He  thought  her  eyes  softened  at  the  picture  which  he  cer- 
tainly did  not  draw,  but  which  she  may  have  made  for 
herself.  The  house  always  affected  him,  and  he  may  have 
conveyed  something  to  her  of  its  mellow  charm. 

"I  like  the  deep  window  sills,"  she  said. 

"I've  window  sills  in  my  rooms  here  in  London." 

So  they  left  Datchet  and  came  up  to  Westminster. 

"How  did  you  manage  to  find  them?" 

He  told  her  of  Mr.  Jellicoe's  Mrs.  Rommage. 

"I'd  been  looking,  though." 

"For  window  sills?" 

"For  window  sills  and  other  things.  I  knew  the  sort 
of  rooms  that  I  wanted.  But  I  wasn't  sure  that  they 
existed." 

"You  knew  them  when  you  saw  them?" 

"Yes.  One  knows  the  outside  of  them  in  Hogarth's 
pictures  —  the  inside,  too.  Oh,  and  in  Rowlandson's, 
later.  In  Cruikshank's,  even.  The  sort  of  windows  that 
a  jug  is  emptied  out  of  on  to  somebody's  head." 

"You  fling  up  the  window  sash,"  she  said,  and  he  saw 
with  delight  that  she  was  with  him. 

"And  there's  a  beadle  somewhere  below,  and  a  woman 
with  a  basket  of  fish  — " 

She  caught  the  idea  at  once,  threw  it  back  to  him.  They 
played  with  it  like  children  with  a  ball. 

"And  the  fish  are  plaice  and  have  faces  like  people." 

"And  everything's  going  on  at  the  same  time.  People 
going  to  church,  and  to  the  Beggar's  Opera  ..." 

"And  Shows  —  Fat  Women  ..." 

"Some  one  being  shaved  in  the  street  .  .  ." 


302  CHRISTOPHER 

"A  dog  stealing  a  bone  .  .  ." 

"A  platform  giving  way;  crashing  down  .  .  ." 

"People  playing  cards  underneath." 

They  paused  breathless. 

"I  know  your  rooms,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"That's  the  outside  of  them." 

"The  inside  is  —  lawyers  bringing  somebody  something 
to  sign  .  .  ." 

"Or  bailiffs  taking  possession  ..." 

"No,  they  are  too  comfortable  and  orderly  for  that  — 
all  except  your  writing-table.  There 's  a  fine  frenzy  there. 
I  do  know  your  rooms,  Mr.  Herrick." 

"Oh,"  Christopher  was  saying  inwardly,  "it  is  You. 
I  knew  it  was  You.  I  knew." 

Cora  herself  at  that  moment  may  not  have  been  sure 
but  that  he  was  right.  Her  eyes  were  shining,  anyway. 
She  looked  even  a  little  excited.  However  this  may  be,  she 
was  thinking  probably  that  she  had  accounted  for  his 
" recognisings."  He  had  "recognised"  her,  as  he  might 
be  said  to  have  recognized  his  rooms  when  he  saw  them. 
It  must  have  been  plain  to  her  that  he  made  pictures  of 
everything. 

Mrs.  Constaple's  entrance  now  broke  in  upon  them. 
But  Christopher  felt  that  the  fates  had  been  generous,  and 
that,  for  the  time  being,  they  had  given  as  much  as  he  could 
reasonably  have  expected  or  hoped.  He  turned  cheerfully 
to  his  hostess.'who  came  in  trailing  a  scarf,  and  putting  on 
the  gloves  which,  in  another  minute  or  two,  she  would  have 
to  take  off. 

" I  can  only  hope  you'll  all  forgive  me,"  she  began,  and 
etopped  as  she  saw  that  the  room  held  only  the  pair  by  the 
fire.  She  gave  Christopher  her  hand  and  welcomed  him. 
"  But  the  others?  Really  it 's  too  bad  of  Reggie.  There's  no 
excuse  for  him.  There's  less  still  for  me,  I  know.  But  I  am 
here  and  he  is  n't."  She  turned  to  Cora.  "And  Geraldine 
and  Charlie.  Really!  I  said  seven  punctually,  and  it's  a 


CHRISTOPHER  303 

quarter  past,  and  we  shall  have  to  go  without  our  coffee, 
which  she  knows  I  hate  doing.  Really!  Really!  Really!" 

Christopher,  ardent  playgoer  as  he  was,  cared  little  if 
they  should  be  late  for  the  play  that  night. 

"My  husband  asked  me  to  make  his  excuses  —  did 
Miss  St.  Jemison  tell  you?  —  a  political  dinner.  Don't 
let  me  forget  the  tickets,  Cora.  They're  on  the  mantel- 
piece there."  She  looked  at  the  clock.  "Really!  Really!" 

Cora  stood  still,  smiling;  and  Mrs.  Constaple,  after  once 
more  sighing  "Really!  Really!"  calmed  down  and  came 
to  anchor  beside  her.  Then  the  door  opened  once  more 
and  the  delinquents  were  announced  in  a  bunch. 

Geraldine,  kissing  her  mother,  said  it  was  Charlie;  and 
Charlie,  on  the  other  side,  said  it  was  Geraldine.  "  Reggie  " 
—  the  Mr.  Heccadon,  Christopher  saw,  of  the  memorable 
dinner-party  —  said  it  was  the  Ridiculous  Hour. 

"Well,  don't  blame  me  if  the  fish  is  a  cinder  and  we  miss 
the  first  act.  These  two  good  patient  people  "  —  she  looked 
at  Cora  and  Christopher  —  "have  saved  you  your  scold- 
ings." 

Christopher  waited  for  her  "Now,  let  me  see,"  and  it 
came;  but  he  was  watching  two  people  shake  hands. 
"Charlie,  will  you  take  —  no,  that  won't  do.  Yes,  will 
you  take  Miss  St.  Jemison.  Reggie  and  I  separate,  I  re- 
member, to  keep  you  and  Geraldine  apart.  Mr.  Herrick, 
will  you  take  my  daughter.  Come,  Reggie  .  .  ." 

They  made  their  way  to  the  dining-room.  It  had  been 
too  much  to  hope,  Christopher  supposed,  that  he  should 
find  himself  next  Miss  St.  Jemison. 

He  sat  between  "Geraldine"  (whose  surname  he  now 
discovered  from  the  slip  of  paper  in  front  of  her  plate  was 
Harringay!)  and  his  hostess.  Miss  St.  Jemison,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  table,  had  Mr.  Heccadon  at  right  angles 
to  her  on  her  right,  and  her  hostess's  son-in-law,  Mr.  Har- 
ringay, on  her  left. 

For  Christopher  the  rest  of  the  evening  was  a  failure. 


304  CHRISTOPHER 

His  happiness,  it  seemed,  had  reached  high-water  mark  in 
the  good  quarter  of  an  hour,  which  ordinarily  is  the  bad 
quarter  of  an  hour,  before  dinner.  He  talked  to  Mrs. 
Harringay  and  learned  that  his  Harringay  —  the  Harrin- 
gay  of  the  wanderings  and  of  Chateau  So-and-So  memory 

—  was  a  distant  cousin  of  Charlie's  over  there.  He  talked 
to  his  hostess  of  he  knew  not  what,  and  joined  in  the  con- 
versation when  it  was  general.  But  all  the  time,  though  he 
managed  to  keep  his  eyes  from  her,  he  was  conscious  of 
no  one  but  Cora  —  or,  more  accurately  (since  of  one  other 
at  the  table  he  was  acutely  conscious),  of  no  one  but  in 
relation  to  her.    Geraldine's  husband,  he  perceived,  was 
still  too  lately  married,  and  too  much  in  love  with  his  wife, 
to  have  eyes  for  any  one  else.  The  two,  indeed,  exchanged 
glances  of  affection  and  mutual  understanding  all  through 
dinner.  But  the  man  whom  Mrs.  Constaple  addressed  and 
spoke  of  as  "Reggie,"  and  whom  Christopher,  for  some 
reason  or  other,  had  not  forgotten,  kept  the  one  girl  of  the 
party  engaged  in  a  conversation  which  Christopher,  itch- 
ing to  hear,  tried  vainly  not  to  listen  to.  Something  in  his 
manner  displeased  Christopher.  An  assumption  of  proprie- 
torship?  Too  much  to  say  that.   Something  of  the  sort, 
however.    If  so,  it  was  the  distant  cousin  of  his  friend 
Harringay  who  should  have  resented  it,  for  he  and  not 
Mr.  Heccadon  —  nor  Christopher  either,  for  that  matter! 

—  had  taken  her  down  to  dinner.    Harringay's  distant 
cousin  talked  contentedly  to  his  mother-in-law,  and  looked 
at  his  wife. 

Cora  St.  Jemison's  voice  reached  Christopher  from  time 
to  time,  and  her  soft  laugh.  She  seemed  interested  and 
amused.  He  could  not  help  knowing  this.  What  had  he, 
then,  to  object  to? 

But  he  did  object;  he  did  inwardly,  and  presently  — 
albeit  still  inwardly  —  furiously  object  to  something  to 
which  Cora  St.  Jemison  herself,  it  was  apparent,  did  not. 
He  could  not  define  what  it  was  that  he  so  strenuously 
resented.  It  was  upon  her  account  rather  than  his  own 


CHRISTOPHER  305 

that  he  resented  it  —  whatever  it  might  be.  The  feelings 
aroused  in  him  were  akin  to  those  which  he  had  experienced 
when  he  saw  the  looks  which  were  turned  upon  her  in  the 
street.  It  was  as  if  these  looks  were  incarnate  in  the  man 
at  the  end  of  the  table,  who  leant  so  perpetually  towards 
her  as  he  spoke.  Need  he  have  so  leant  towards  her  .  .  .  ? 

And  Cora  did  not  mind.  She  could  smile  into  his  face 
and  drop  her  voice  when  he  dropped  his.  He  had  good 
looks  of  a  kind.  He  was  justified,  Christopher  saw,  in 
being  clean-shaven,  and  had  strong-looking  white  teeth. 
Christopher  wondered  now  how  he  could  ever  have  thought 
him  negligible. 

Mrs.  Harringay  was  speaking. 

She  was  the  sort  of  person  who  is  always  surprised  to  find 
the  world  small,  and,  for  the  second  time,  as  if  she  narrated 
some  marvellous  occurrence,  she  was  saying,  — 

"So  it  was  you  that  Charlie's  cousin  went  abroad  with." 

Yes,  Christopher  repeated;  it  was  he.  As  well  talk  of 
one  thing  as  another. 

"I  was  doing  my  in-law  visits  when  I  met  him.  Quite 
one  of  the  nicest  of  my  new  relations.  He  must  have  men- 
tioned your  name,  but  I  never  thought  of  connecting  it 
with  you.  Of  course  I  'd  only  met  you  once,  but  I  'd  often 
heard  of  you.  Did  n't  he  tell  me  he'd  been  abroad  with 
you  before?  Oh,  yes.  It  was  you  who  rushed  him  round 
Germany  or  somewhere,  and  would  n't  let  him  stay  any- 
where. He  wanted  to  stay  at  Homburg." 

"Who  would  n't  let  who  stay  at  Homburg?" 

It  was  the  husband  chipping  in  from  the  other  side  of 
the  table. 

"Mr.  Herrick  —  your  Cousin  Philip." 

"That's  years  ago,"  said  Christopher. 

"He  remembers  it  still.  You  took  him  to  place  after 
place  and  would  n't  let  him  stay  in  any  of  them." 

Cora  St.  Jemison  looked  over  at  him.  Was  it  possible 
that  she  was  not  so  unconscious  of  him  as  she  seemed? 
For  a  moment  the  weight  lifted ;  but  her  neighbour,  who 


306  CHRISTOPHER 

had  paused  in  what  he  was  saying  to  follow  her  eyes  with 
his  own  across  the  table,  and  had  decided  apparently  that 
there  was  nothing  there  to  detain  him,  turned  back  to  her 
at  once,  and  again  absorbed  her  attention.  Mrs.  Con- 
staple's  excellent  dinner  was  as  ashes  in  the  mouth  of  one 
of  her  guests. 

After  dinner  all  was  haste.  The  men  had  hardly  lighted 
their  cigarettes  before  the  carriages  were  at  the  door,  and 
the  butler  came  in  to  announce  them.  Mrs.  Constaple  was 
heard  on  the  stairs  at  the  same  moment.  • 

Harringay,  cousin  of  Harringay,  the  decanters  round 
him,  said  that  there  was  no  hurry  and  that  they  would 
finish  their  wine,  or  their  cigarettes,  or  their  coffee,  as  the 
case  might  be,  and,  in  the  same  breath,  that  perhaps  they 
had  better  be  moving.  The  contents  of  a  glass  or  a  cup 
were  gulped  down,  and  a  move  was  made  for  hats  and  coats. 

Mrs.  Constaple  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  drinking 
her  coffee.  She  had  forgotten  the  tickets,  and  a  footman 
was  despatched  for  them.  Geraldine  came  down  putting 
her  cloak  about  her.  Then  Cora. 

The  Harringays  had  their  own  carriage,  a  coup6,  and 
were  sent  off  in  it,  and  may  be  thought  of  as  holding  hands 
in  it  from  Grosvenor  Street  to  the  Strand.  Mr.  Heccadon, 
it  seemed,  had  a  private  hansom,  —  the  conveyance  just 
then  of  the  male  idle  rich,  —  and,  for  Christopher,  there 
was  a  hideous  moment  in  which  his  suggestion  that  he 
should  take  Miss  St.  Jemison  was  allowed  to  be  played 
with  more  or  less  seriously. 

"Do  as  you  like,"  Mrs.  Constaple  said.  "  In  these  chang- 
ing times  —  I  learnt  this  long  ago  from  Geraldine  —  I  'm 
not  competent  to  give  an  opinion." 

Mr.  Heccadon  grinned,  waiting. 

"Still,  if  you  ask  me,  my  dear  — " 

Cora  may  have  seen  Christopher's  face.  She  shook  her 
head  with  a  soft  laugh  and  followed  her  hostess. 

"Then  we  must  be  content  to  put  up  with  each  other," 
said  Mr.  Heccadon,  turning  to  Christopher  with  a  smile. 


CHRISTOPHER  307 

It  was  only  one  more  ill  which  the  horrible  evening  was 
doing  him.  Gall  and  wormwood  to  Christopher  to  accept 
anything  from  this  man,  but  he  had  no  excuse  for  refusing; 
so  with  as  good  a  grace  as  was  possible  in  the  circumstances 
he  took  the  offered  seat.  It  soothed  him  in  some  sort  to 
think  that  the  invitation,  which  might  have  been  worded 
more  happily,  could  scarcely  have  been  worded  more 
aptly. 

"At  least,  we  can  smoke,"  Mr.  Heccadon  said,  holding 
out  his  cigarette-case;  and  Christopher  had  at  any  rate 
the  opportunity  of  politely  refusing  something. 

"Worst  of  women,  they  fuss  so.  Why  not  have  let  us 
finish  our  dinner  comfortably  and  be  late?  Have  n't  I  met 
you  before  there?" 

Christopher,  wondering  whether  he  remembered,  said 
that  he  had  dined  with  Mrs.  Constaple  once  before. 

If  there  was  any  reserve  in  his  tone  Mr.  Heccadon  did 
not  appear  to  observe  it.  He  smoked  in  ruminative  silence 
for  a  minute  or  two  and  then  chuckled. 

"That  was  funny,  was  n't  it?" 

"What  was?" 

"Oh,  about  the  lift,  you  know.  Coming  with  me,  I 
mean.  Not  coming,  you  know." 

Christopher's  muscles  were  all  taut.  He  was  as  far  into 
his  corner  as  it  was  possible  for  a  person  of  his  size  to  get. 

"Ever  seen  her  mother?" 

He  took  Christopher's  inarticulate  answer  for  No. 

"There  was  a  woman,  if  you  like  —  is  still,  if  you  make 
some  insignificant  allowances  for  Anno  Domini !  I  'm  forty. 
I  remember  her  —  well,  what  shall  we  say?  —  well,  quite 
a  good  many  years  back,  anyway.  She  was  fair.  Women 
used  to  have  golden  hair,  as  it  was  called,  in  the  seventies. 
That's  gone  out,  of  course,  now,  and  last  time  I  saw  her  — 
that  was  a  couple  of  years  ago,  in  Paris  —  hers  was  the 
usual  red-brown.  You  know  —  the  autumn  colour.  Most 
appropriate,  really.  But,  by  Jove !  there  was  nothing  else 
of  autumn  about  her.  Nothing  of  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf 


3o8  CHRISTOPHER 

about  her  —  or  the  sere  and  yellow  tooth,  either,  which  is 
generally  what  that  amounts  to.  She  has  a  figure  like  a 
girl's  and  a  mouth  like  a  child's.  Yes,  by  Jove,  she  was 
and  she  is  a  pretty  woman." 

Christopher,  his  nerves  ajar,  prayed  that  this  summing-up 
might  close  the  subject.  Yet  under  his  jarred  nerves,  under 
the  discomfort  which  the  mention  of  Cora  St.  Jemison's 
mother  must  inevitably  cause  him,  he  was  conscious  of 
feeling  a  sort  of  romantic  interest  in  what  he  was  being 
told.  Even  now,  sometimes,  he  could  remember  her  clearly 
as  she  had  looked  when  she  knelt  beside  him  in  the  dust  of 
the  Champs  de  Foire  at  Boulogne.  Chords  of  memory 
had  been  touched  at  the  allusion  to  her  hair.  The  "pity 
of  unpitied  human  things"  stirred  in  him.  He  remembered 
her  shining  hair  —  the  golden  ("as  it  was  called")  hair  of 
the  chignoned  seventies,  and  again  felt  that  he  hated  the 
man  beside  him.  Something  in  the  way  that  he  spoke  of 
her  seemed  an  in,sult  even  to  one  who  had  forfeited  the 
right  to  respect. 

"Eh?"  he  said. 

"I  did  n't  say  anything,"  said  Christopher. 

They  were  crossing  Piccadilly  Circus.  The  lights  of 
it,  which,  as  Lights  of  London,  generally  gave  Chris- 
topher pleasure,  struck  him  as  hard  and  pitiless.  For 
radiance  he  saw  only  a  glare  which  showed  him  ugly 
things.  He  thought  of  his  rooms  and  wished  he  was  in 
them.  He  had  little  hope  now  that  the  evening,  which 
had  begun  so  happily,  had  anything  but  disappointment 
in  store  for  him. 

One  more  shock  he  had  when,  in  Trafalgar  Square,  Hec- 
cadon  said  suddenly  out  of  another  of  his  ruminative 
silences:  "Quite  another  type.  Quite  different.  One  sees 
these  changings — throws-back,  or  whatever  you  call  them." 

This  time  it  was  Christopher  who  said  "Eh?"  or 
"What?" 

"The  daughter,  you  know.  Quite  different  in  appear- 
ance. All  women  are  the  same  inside,  one  knows  that,  but 


CHRISTOPHER  309 

the  outward  unlikeness  here  is  remarkable.  She's  got 
something,  too,  that  her  mother  never  had,  for  all  her 
beauty.  Something  that  Frenchwomen  have  oftener 
than  English.  Have  you  noticed?  A  subtlety!  A  mys- 
tery! But  I  can't  give  a  name  to  it.  Perhaps  you  can 
help  me." 

No,  Christopher  had  not  noticed,  could  not  help  him. 
He  had  difficulty  in  controlling  the  voice  which  said  this. 
The  strain  of  keeping  silence  was  nearly  intolerable  — 
seemed  suddenly  wholly  intolerable.  He  must  get  out.  He 
could  not  sit  still  and  hear  any  more.  He  must  get  out, 
or  he  could  not  answer  for  what  he  might  do.  He  wanted 
to  take  the  man  by  the  throat,  or  strike  him  across  the 
mouth.  How  dare  he  take  Miss  St.  Jemison's  name  on  his 
lips?  How  dare  he  savour  her,  as  it  were,  on  his  tongue; 
compare,  gauge,  appraise  her?  How  dare  he  invite  Chris- 
topher to  discuss  her  with  him? 

Almost  involuntarily  he  raised  one  hand  towards  the  trap, 
knocking  his  hat  against  the  cushion  at  the  back  as  he  did 
so ;  he  saw  the  other  on  the  door  in  front  of  him  rather  than 
was  conscious  of  placing  it  there. 

At  Christopher's  movement  Mr.  Heccadon,  who  seemed 
perfectly  unaware  of  his  offence,  looked  at  him  enquiringly. 

"Anything  the  matter?"  he  said. 

It  gave  Christopher  time  to  recollect  himself.  A  com- 
mon row?  Was  that  what  he  had  been  on  the  point  of 
precipitating?  A  vulgar  quarrel?  Two  men  start  out  to- 
gether from  a  dinner-party  for  a  theatre,  and  arrive  sepa- 
rately at  the  place  where  the  others  await  them!  Not  to 
be  thought  of.  He  brought  the  half-raised  hand  to  his  hat, 
as  if  it  had  been  some  jolt,  and  not  his  own  impulsive  act, 
which  had  jerked  that  out  of  place,  and,  as  the  hansom 
swung  round  into  the  Strand,  affected  to  steady  himself 
with  the  other.  He  was  wise  enough  to  let  his  action  an- 
swer for  itself. 

"Your  man  drives  fast,"  he  said.  "We  shan't  be  so  very 
late." 


3io  CHRISTOPHER 

They  were  bound  for  the  Gaiety.  They  got  there  with- 
out further  incident. 

This  time,  Christopher  believed  that  he  might  have  sat 
next  to  Cora.  He  stood  back  and  let  Heccadon  take  the 
vacant  seat  beside  her.  The  horrible  evening  would  drag 
itself  out  to  its  end. 


CHAPTER  XV 

SINCE  the  worst  that  was  said  of  him  afterwards. was  that 
he  talked  to  you  and  thought  of  something  else  at  the  same 
time  (it  was  Geraldine  who  said  this),  it  may  be  supposed 
that  he  acquitted  himself  fairly  well.  He  smoked  a  cigar- 
ette with  Harringay's  distant  cousin  between  the  acts,  and 
talked  of  the  play  and  of  Harringay.  He  kept  out  of  the 
way  of  Mr.  Heccadon,  and  of  Miss  St.  Jemison.  He  put 
Mrs.  Constaple's  cloak  about  her  shoulders  when  all  was 
over,  and  picked  up  her  fan  for  her,  and  her  handkerchief, 
and  the  case  of  her  opera-glasses.  He  it  was  who  went 
out  to  find  her  footman  for  her,  and  to  watch  for  his  reap- 
pearance with  the  carriage,  though,  the  Harringays  having 
had  the  good  luck  to  chance  at  once  on  their  bridal  coup£, 
that  left  Mr.  Heccadon  the  freer  to  talk  to  Miss  St.  Jemi- 
son. From  the  steps  Christopher  saw  him  so  talking  to  her. 
He  was  spared  and  he  spared  himself  nothing. 

The  relief  came,  and  the  unbearable  pain  with  it,  when 
he  found  himself  alone. 

He  crossed  the  Strand  and  went  down  to  the  Embank- 
ment. Again  came  relief  as  he  left  the  noise  and  the  tur- 
moil behind  him;  and  again,  as  if  the  cessation  of  them 
gave  it  fuller  scope,  the  unbearable  pain. 

What  was  this  pain?  What  had  he  done  to  deserve  it? 
No  pain  that  he  had  ever  endured  was  like  this.  His  heart 
was  aching  as  if  it  had  been  beaten.  He  stood  still  for  a 
moment  or  two,  breathing  hard. 

Poor  Christopher,  who  saw  what  was  not  there,  heard  the 
unbearable,  and  now  suffered  what  was  not  to  be  suffered ! 
He  had  some  dim  inkling  of  how  things  were  with  him, 
but  took  no  comfort  from  such  vague  perception.  He  only 
knew  that,  whereas  he  had  been  happy,  he  was  at  that 


3i2  CHRISTOPHER 

moment  as  unhappy  a  being  as  would  be  found  in  all 
London. 

It  was  jealousy,  was  it,  this  pain?  Not  wholly.  Honestly, 
not  wholly.  The  Cora  who  had  met  him,  laughed  with  him, 
seen  eye  to  eye  with  him,  in  the  few  minutes  that  she  had 
been  alone  with  him  before  dinner,  had  receded  to  inacces- 
sible distances  in  the  hours  that  followed.  Something  which 
had  been  established  between  them  then  had  crumbled 
under  his  eyes.  She  seemed  two  people.  The  Cora  who  had 
said  that  she  knew  his  rooms  was  a  different  being  from 
the  Cora  who  had  laughed  into  the  eyes  of  her  neighbour 
at  dinner,  and  who  had  dallied  with  his  suggestion  that  she 
should  drive  with  him  to  the  theatre.  Even  now  Christo- 
pher felt  sick,  as  with  a  sort  of  retrospective  apprehension, 
at  the  thought  of  the  potentialities  of  that  drive.  Could 
she  not  see  what  this  man  was?  Could  she  not  read  what 
women  were  to  him?  What  he  thought  of  women?  That 
she  could  like  him  was  unthinkable ;  and  he  could  see  that 
she  did  like  him. 

He  went  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  road  and  looked 
stupidly  at  the  water. 

"What  shall  I  do?  "he  said  to  himself.  "What  am  I  to  do?" 

He  became  conscious  of  some  one  beside  him  who  begged 
from  him,  and  he  gave  an  impatient  answer,  not  knowing 
what  he  said.  The  beggar,  a  girl,  shuffled  away  into  the 
darkness.  A  moment  later  he  called  to  her. 

"  I  'm  unhappy,  too,"  he  said  to  her  as  he  gave  her  a  coin. 

"Un'appy  —  you?" 

He  looked  at  her  gravely. 

"No,  sir,  don't  laugh  at  me." 

She  had  a  husky  voice ;  a  pretty  little  shabby  face.  She 
was  like  a  bruised  flower. 

"I'm  not  laughing  at  you." 

She  peered  at  him  from  under  her  dingy  hat,  uncertain 
what  to  make  of  him. 

"Well,  I  was  'appy  meself  once  —  on'y  I  did  n't  know 
I  was.  It's  my  belief  we  never  do  know." 


CHRISTOPHER  313 

She  gave  a  little  husky  laugh.  She  looked  at  the  coin  in 
her  palm,  and  saw  that  it  was  not  the  penny  she  had 
thought  it.  She  closed  her  fist  upon  it  quickly. 

"Whatch  un'appy  for?" 

He  was  not  going  to  tell  her  that. 

The  girl  took  a  long  look  at  him.  Something  that  was 
wistful,  and  in  an  odd  sort  of  way  motherly,  too,  came  into 
her  little  pinched  face  of  the  gutter. 

"Look  'ere.  She  don't  mean  it,"  she  said  in  her  strange 
little  washed-out  voice.  "Not  if  she's  any  good,  she  don't 
mean  it.  She  don't  know  when  she's  well  off,  that's  all. 
Got  you,  and  don't  know  if  she  wants  you ;  is  that  it?  Got 
the  kind  sort  — oh,  my  Gawd!  —  and  don't  know  what 
that  means.  'Ere."  She  pushed  her  hat  back  and  showed 
a  scar  on  her  forehead.  "See  that?  And  'ere."  She  pulled 
up  the  thin  sleeve  and  shewed  another  on  the  thin  arm. 
"That's  the  other  sort.  I  know  what  I'm  talkin'  about. 
I  Ve  'ad  to  know." 

Christopher  in  turn  was  looking  at  her ;  he  had  looked  at 
her  before;  really  looking  at  her  this  time. 

"Are  you  a  witch?"  he  said. 

"Witch!"  She  was  a-spike  in  a  moment:  "who  are  y* 
callin'  names?  Witch!  'Ow  old  d'  y'  think  I  am?" 

' '  Twenty- three  ? ' ' 

"Well,  that's  just  what  I  am,"  she  said,  mollified. 
"'Least,  I'm  twenty-four.  What  d'  y'  mean,  — witch?" 

He  did  not  explain. 

She  looked  at  the  scar  on  her  arm  again  and  went  back 
to  what  had  been  in  her  mind. 

"Tell  her.  Make  her  know.  Make  her  know  without 
'avin'  to  know  for  'erself.  We're  fools,  girls  are,  all  of  us 
—  yes,  rich  as  well  as  poor.  Don't  know  what  we  want, 
any  of  us.  Made  like  that,  I  believe.  Can't  'elp  ourselves. 
So  don't  believe  it,  sir.  She  don't  mean  it.  If  she's  any  good, 
she  don't  mean  it."  Her  eyes  swept  over  him  again  as  they 
had  swept  over  him  when  she  spoke  the  words  before,  and 
the  same  look  came  into  them.  "  If  she  does  mean  it.  — 


3i4  CHRISTOPHER 

don't  be  angry,  sir,  —  you  take  it  from  me  she's  no  good. 
And  if  she's  no  good,  —  you  take  this  from  me,  too,  sir,  — 
you  go  away.  You  clear.  You"  —  she  gave  a  common 
little  gesture —  "you  clear" 

She  moved  off  then  with  a  quick  shuffle,  and  paused.  She 
came  back,  holding  out  her  palm. 

"Did  you  know  what  you  was  givin'  me?"  she  said 
shamefacedly. 

He  had  not  known.  Ashamed  of  his  impatience  he  had 
taken  from  his  pocket  the  first  coin  that  came  to  his  hand. 
He  smiled  without  speaking. 

She  nodded  her  thanks. 

"It's  a  bed  for  a  week,"  she  said;  and  put  it  to  her 
mouth  —  but  not  to  bite  it. 

He  was  better  after  that.  The  pain  came  back  and  came 
back,  rising  always  like  a  wave  and  sweeping  over  him, 
engulfing  him ;  but  it  was  not  the  unbearable  pain  of  those 
first  few  moments,  and  each  time  that  it  ebbed,  it  left  him  a 
little  less  in  reach  of  its  fiercest  onslaught.  As  he  walked 
homewards  under  the  stars  the  peaceful  influences  of  the 
night  began  to  soothe  him.  He  could  think  more  calmly 
of  the  evening  which  had  left  him  so  wounded  and  angry 
and  sore. 

Poor  little  drab  who  had  comforted  him!  When  the 
reckoning  came,  who  knew  that  this  that  she  had  done 
would  be  forgotten  to  her?  Poor  little  helpless  thing  who 
had  helped  him  .  .  . 

Looking  back,  he  felt  in  his  need  that  he  could  even  have 
''told"  her.  No  suffering,  he  learnt  in  that  moment,  goes 
or  can  go  for  nothing.  Out  of  suffering  grows  what  is  best 
in  the  weakest  of  us. 

He  peered  into  the  darkness  to  see  if  she  might  have 
followed  him.  He  retraced  his  steps  almost  to  where  she 
had  appeared  to  him.  But  she  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  He 
had  not  let  her  know  what  she  had  done  for  him;  had  not 
even  thanked  her. 


CHRISTOPHER  315 

Big  Ben  was  striking  twelve  as  he  turned  into  Cloisters 
Street.  The  thick,  deep  notes  rang  out  slowly.  He  counted 
them  to  the  twelfth.  The  day  to  which  he  had  looked  for- 
ward so  earnestly  was  over. 

Cloisters  Street,  his  end  of  it  anyway,  was  never  quite 
dark,  for  a  street-lamp  stood  opposite  to  number  three. 
Christopher  looked  at  the  gentle  old  house,  the  beautiful 
fanlight  over  the  door,  the  flat  white  windows.  Yes,  in 
terms  of  Hogarth  and  Rowlandson  one  aspect  of  it  was  to 
be  expressed  accurately  enough.  There  were  the  sashes  you 
flung  up  to  empty  your  jug  (or  other  vessel)  on  to  the  heads 
of  roysterers  below.  There,  in  the  mellow  brick  walls, 
was  the  dignified  eighteenth-century  background  for  the 
undignified  businesses  and  follies  of  the  streets.  But 
though  they  might  lend  themselves  to  the  broad  humours 
of  a  coarser  age,  these  were  old  walls  with  critical  faculties, 
predilections,  prejudices,  sympathies.  They  had  accepted 
him  because  he  loved  them,  and  they  had  seemed  to  have 
accepted  Cora.  It  was  difficult  just  then  to  think  of  Cora 
as  understanding  them,  if  she  could  tolerate  —  could 
tolerate  .  .  . 

It  was  jealousy,  then! 

Yes,  he  was  sick  with  jealousy;  made  unjust  with  jeal- 
ousy; made  even  ridiculous  by  jealousy. 

The  pain  was  back  with  him  again.  A  very  tidal  wave  of 
pain,  this.  It  submerged  him;  left  him  half-drowned; 
choking;  fighting  for  breath.  The  little  drab  on  the  Em- 
bankment could  not  succour  him  while  the  waters  poured 
over  his  head;  Cloisters  Street  could  not;  nor  the  message 
of  the  stars. 

He  took  his  key  blindly  from  a  pocket  and  let  himself 
into  the  house. 

A  fortnight  went  by.  Christopher  walked  it.  He  did, 
and  attempted  to  do,  no  work.  Some  day,  he  supposed, 
what  was  in  him,  what  he  felt  to  have  in  him,  would  be  re- 


316  CHRISTOPHER 

leased.  But  this  was  not  yet.  He  was  offered  commissions 
which  he  did  not  accept.  He  offended  a  person  or  two. 
He  was  said  to  neglect  opportunities.  A  rumour  of  this 
reached  his  stepfather,  who  did  not  tell  his  mother.  He 
came  to  see  him,  however,  and  actually  found  him. 

Christopher,  unlike  most  young  men  with  fathers  or 
stepfathers,  was  never  shy  with  the  husband  of  his  mother. 
It  was  strange  how  the  two  understood  each  other. 

John  Hemming,  who  could  not  have  written  a  line  to 
save  his  life,  seemed  to  know  by  instinct  what  went  to  the 
writing  of  lines. 

"Getting  on,  old  boy?" 

"Not  a  bit." 

"  That 's  all  right.   Wait  for  it." 

Christopher  was  waiting,  but  was  not  sure  that  he  was 
waiting  for  It. 

"How's  mother?" 

"Waiting  for  you.  When  are  you  coming  down  to  us 
again?" 

"Not  yet,  Father  John." 

John  Hemming  settled  himself  more  comfortably  in  one 
of  Christopher's  comfortable  chairs. 

"Come  down  and  dine  one  night." 

"No,  John.   Not  just  now." 

"What  is  it,  old  boy?" 

"It  is  n't  anything.  That's  what's  the  matter  with  it. 
It  is  n't  anything." 

"And  you  thought  it  was." 

Christopher  nodded. 

"And  you  can't  work." 

"Or  play." 

"Everything  else  hangs  on  it." 

"Everything." 

John  Hemming  lay  back  in  his  chair.  He  watched  the 
smoke  which  twirled  upwards,  a  twisting  riband,  from  his 
cigarette. 

"Nothing  that  I  can  do  for  you?"  he  said  at  last. 


CHRISTOPHER  317 

"Nothing  that  any  one  can."  '! 

He  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 

"There's  nothing  to  do  anything  about,"  he  said  pre- 
sently, without  turning. 

His  stepfather  contemplated  his  back  —  the  muscular 
slimness,  the  way  the  head  was  set  on  the  shoulders.  Chris- 
topher had  none  of  the  uglinesses  of  the  brain-worker  — 
of  the  artist  even.  Even  in  love,  as  he  undoubtedly  was, 
he  was  still  a  healthy  young  animal.  John  Hemming's 
thought  was  not  unlike  that  of  the  poor  little  drab  when 
she  said,  "Got  you,  and  don't  know  if  she  wants  you!" 
He,  too,  at  the  thought,  could  have  called  Heaven  to  wit- 
ness. 

Christopher  upon  his  part  was  thinking  that  his  step- 
father was  a  good  sort.  Who  else  would  not  have  been  ask- 
ing him  questions,  or  if  not  asking  him  questions,  pointing 
out  that  he  was  not  asking  or  going  to  ask  him  questions? 
He  was  only  behaving  as  he  always  behaved,  and  that  was 
splendidly. 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"Mind,  I  don't  know  yet,"  Christopher  said  suddenly 
out  of  the  silence. 

It  was  as  if  the  thing  struck  him  as  he  gave  it  voice. 

He  did  not  know  that  he  had  cause  for  what  he  was  feel- 
ing. It  might  conceivably  be,  that,  with  the  injustice 
which  he  could  believe  himself  to  be  doing  to  the  man  he 
disliked,  he  was  doing  Cora  an  injustice  also.  At  least 
she  was  unheard. 

John  Hemming  did  not  stay  long.  He  had  his  train  to 
catch.  He  did  not  say  a  word  to  Christopher  about  what 
it  was  that  had  sent  him.  He  always  held  that  Christopher, 
whatever  he  did  or  did  not  do,  would  ultimately  be  all 
right.  Then  what  had  he  come  for?  No.  Though  he  had 
known  that  probably  no  more  would  be  said  than  had  been 
said,  he  was  not  in  any  doubt  as  to  why  he  had  come;  nor 
was  he  dissatisfied  with  the  result  of  his  visit.  He  remem- 
bered things  which  he  had  certainly  not  said  to  Christo- 


3i8  CHRISTOPHER 

pher's  mother,  and  which  none  the  less  certainly  had  been 
conveyed  to  her.  He  remembered  things,  to  make  which 
clear  to  him  she  had  not  needed  words.  His  marriage  to  her 
had  largely  been  the  outcome  of  such  charged  silences. 
He  did  not  need  Christopher's  "You  are  a  good  sort,  John, 
upon  my  soul  you  are,"  to  tell  him  that  he  had  helped 
him.  There  are  moments,  he  knew  this,  when  some  one 
—  a  friend,  that  is  —  has  only  to  be  "there." 

He  had  risen  and  he  put  out  his  hand. 

"No,  if  you'll  wait  a  second  while  I  change  my  coat, 
I'll  come  with  you  to  Waterloo." 

Christopher  dived  into  the  next  room.  When  he  came 
back,  pulling  down  his  sleeves  and  settling  his  collar,  John 
Hemming  was  standing  in  a  patch  of  sunlight  near  one  of 
the  walls,  running  his  finger  along  the  lines  of  the  panelling. 

'What  is  it  about  them?" 

'The  walls?" 

'Yes." 

'The  Datchet  house  has  it  too." 

'  I  know.  But  I  feel  it  even  more  here.  It  is  n't  only 
the  panelling,  though  it's  that  partly.  A  Dickensy  feel- 
ing. Sentiment.  Friendliness.  Rooms  like  these  must 
help  you,  Christopher.  They  do,  don't  they?" 

"All  the  time,"  said  Christopher. 

Yes,  it  was  wonderful  what  John  Hemming  knew.  So 
much  more  than  you  could  possibly  have  expected  from 
any  one  so  thoroughly  normal  and  sane.  The  thought 
that  hung  on  this,  if  he  had  realised  it,  was  one  of  won- 
der that  any  one  should  ever  have  let  him  go!  His  mother 
had  wondered  to  amazement;  wondered  more  and  more 
in  the  passing  of  the  years.  Trimmer  even,  humbly,  — 
as  knowing  her  place,  —  had  wondered  too. 

They  crossed  Westminster  Bridge  and  threaded  their 
way  through  the  noisier  traffic  of  the  south  side  of 
the  river  to  the  station.  At  the  entrance  Christopher 


CHRISTOPHER  319 

said,  "Shall  I  come  down  with  you  now  and  dine  to- 
night?" 

"Why  not?"  said  his  stepfather. 

Anne  never  knew  what  she  owed  the  pleasure  of  that 
surprise  visit  to. 

John  looked  into  the  school-room  (which  had  been  the 
nursery),  where  she  was  sitting  with  Ancebel  and  her  gov- 
erness, doing  work  for  an  impending  bazaar. 

"Brought  a  man  back  to  dinner,"  he  said. 

Anne  hoped  there  was  enough  fish. 

"  Your  precious  Christopher,"  said  John  Hemming,  with 
a  wink  at  Fatima. 

Well,  he  had  n't,  it  seemed,  come  to  break  anything  to 
her — which  was  Anne's  first  dreadful  thought.  All  through 
dinner,  which  was  a  very  cheerful  meal,  she  was  afraid  that 
afterwards  she  would  be  told  something  which  her  husband 
probably  knew  already.  But  the  evening,  like  the  dinner, 
passed  cheerfully  and  without  event. 

"What  did  he  come  down  for?"  she  asked  her  husband 
afterwards. 

"Nothing.   He  just  came  down." 

"You  went  to  see  him." 

"I  was  at  the  Stbres.    I  just  went  to  see  him." 

"All  the  same,"  she  said,  "he's  not  really  himself.  He 
was  n't  at  Easter,  and  he  is  n't  now." 

"Oh,  yes,  he  is,"  said  John  Hemming. 

The  evening  was  quite  a  happy  one  to  Christopher.  John, 
somehow,  like  the  friendly  rooms,  had  helped  him.  He 
went  to  bed  in  a  happier  frame  of  mind  than  he  had  known 
for  days,  and  slept  excellently.  For  the  dull  weight  to 
which  he  awoke  every  morning  he  was  conscious  of  a  feeling 
of  pleasant  anticipation.  Amongst  his  letters  was  a  letter. 
He  grew  dizzy  for  a  moment  at  the  sight  of  it,  and  then 
opened  it  with  trembling  fingers.  It  was  very  short. 


320  CHRISTOPHER 

"Why  don't  you  come  and  see  us?"  wrote  Cora  St. 
Jemison.  "We  know  you  are  busy"  (did  they?),  "but  think 
you  might  spare  time  to  see  if  we  are  still  alive.  Sundays 
always,  as  you  know,  but  this  week  we  shall  be  in  on  Thurs- 
day also." 

"Might  n't  it  be  better  that  I  should  not?"  Christopher 
wrote  after  long  thought. 

"Come,"  wrote  Cora,  "and  tell  me  why." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IT  was  now  that  Christopher  began  to  be  conscious  of  an 
acceleration  in  the  movement  of  his  affairs.  A  certain 
breathlessness  pervaded  them.  Things  seemed  suddenly 
to  be  moving  towards  something.  It  was  as  if,  for  the  very 
reason  that  they  had  stood  still  or  appeared  to  stand  still 
for  so  long,  they  now  moved  the  faster. 

There  were  two  days,  when  he  got  Cora's  second  letter, 
between  him  and  the  day  which  she  had  named  in  her  first. 
For  the  wish  that  he  had  to  see  the  sea  he  spent  one  of  them 
at  Hastings,  and  filled  his  lungs  with  pleasant  salt  airs. 
Nothing  happened  there.  He  lunched  upon  sandwiches 
and  fruit  on  the  beach,  and  looked  at  the  waves,  and 
breathed  deeply.  The  tide  was  coming  in.  Little  odd  memo- 
ries of  other  incomings  of  the  tide  stirred  in  him,  that 
was  all.  Things  seen,  and  things  only  heard  of  or  read  about, 
were  indistinguishable  in  the  vague  stirring  of  these.  But 
as  he  looked  he  became  conscious  again  of  such  stored  im- 
pressions, and  of  the  resultant  teemings  of  his  active  mind 
—  of  the  press,  too,  of  something  waiting  to  be  released. 
He  had  not  just  then,  as  his  deserted  writing-table  in 
Cloisters  Street  could  bear  witness,  an  idea  worth  com- 
mitting to  paper.  But  everything  that  he  had  ever  seen  or 
felt,  with  uncountable  branchings  and  ramifications  and 
offshoots,  seemed  imprisoned  in  him  and  to  clamour  to  be 
let  free.  The  sight  and  the  smell  of  the  sea  intensified  the 
feeling.  It  would  be  a  hand  which  was  not  his  that  would 
do  the  releasing,  and  the  releasing  would  take  place  soon. 

Something,  meanwhile,  of  calm  had  settled  down  upon 
him  since  John  Hemming's  visit  and  the  evening  that  he 
had  spent  at  home.  The  two  together,  renewing  his  hope, 
seemed  as  if  they,  in  some  way,  must  have  brought  about 


322  CHRISTOPHER 

the  coming  even  of  the  letter  which  was  to  bring  him  into 
touch  once  more  with  the  house  from  which  he  had  been 
keeping  away.  In  reality,  of  course,  all  they  had  done  was, 
by  distracting  his  attention  from  his  distemper,  to  enable 
him  once  more  to  look  ahead,  and  so  forget  his  misgivings. 

The  day  by  the  sea  —  the  day  with  the  sea,  one  might 
almost  say,  for  the  sea  was  his  friend — still  further  soothed 
him.  The  sun  was  hot  enough  to  allow  him  to  lie  on  the 
beach.  He  surrendered  himself  to  the  pleasant  influences 
of  the  peaceful  afternoon.  Presently  he  went  into  the  town 
and  had  tea,  and  after  tea  he  came  back.  The  day  drew 
to  its  close.  He  dined  in  the  town  and  again  he  came  back. 
He  saw  night  fall  and  the  stars  come  out.  He  watched  the 
mysteries  of  the  night  deepen  as  clouds  came  up  from  the 
south.  There  was  no  moon.  There  were  lights  in  the  dis- 
tance which  seemed  to  breathe  in  the  darkness.  The  stars 
themselves  seemed  to  breathe  .  .  . 

He  stayed  till  the  last  moment,  and  then,  refreshed  and 
renewed,  came  back  to  London. 

Mrs.  Constaple  was  out,  he  was  told  the  next  day,  when 
he  presented  himself  in  Grosvenor  Street;  but  Miss  St. 
Jemison  was  at  home.  Christopher  was  shown,  not  into 
the  great  drawing-room,  but  into  a  smaller,  more  intimate 
room  on  the  ground  floor. 

Here  he  found  Cora  surrounded  by  three  or  four  people 
whom,  if  he  was  to  see  her  alone,  he  foresaw  that  he  would 
have  to  outstay. 

She  it  was,  this  time,  who  rose  from  beside  the  tea-table 
to  receive  him. 

"My  little  party  to-day,"  she  said.  "Mrs.  Constaple 
was  to  have  come  to  it,  but  she  had  to  go  out.  Do  you 
know  Mrs.  Heccadon?  —  Mr.  Herrick.  And  Miss  Pen- 
treath?"  He  knew  Miss  Pentreath  and  shook  hands  with 
her.  "Mr.  Pargitur,  Mr.  Herrick.  M.  de  Parencourt." 

They  settled  down.  Christopher  thought  he  was  going 
to  hate  it.  But  he  did  not  hate  it.  Mrs.  Heccadon,  some 


CHRISTOPHER  323 

connection,  he  supposed,  of  the  Mr.  Heccadon  whom  he 
had  met  at  dinner,  was  of  a  type,  it  is  true,  which,  just  then 
establishing  itself,  did  not  appeal  to  him.  There  was  a 
challenge  somehow  in  her  odd  clothes  and  odd  appear- 
ance, and  Christopher  thought  to  himself  how  sure  he  was 
that  he  did  n't  admire  her  —  till  the  moment  when  she 
went  to  the  piano.  She  was  transformed  then  from  a  jaded 
rag  of  a  woman  into  a  thing  of  ardent  beauty. 

The  people  who  would  be  singing  the  Indian  Love  Lyrics 
when  their  day  should  come  along,  or  "Melisande  in  the 
Wood,"  were  singing  the  "  Creole  Love-Song"  then  for  the 
"  Garden  of  Sleep  ";  and  she  sang  the  "Creole  Love  Song." 
Her  voice  was  small  but  extraordinarily  sweet,  with  a  cu- 
rious little  husky  quality,  too,  which  made  Christopher 
think  of  the  little  drab  on  the  Embankment.  Cora  hung 
over  her  after  she  had  sung.  In  spirit  they  all  hung  over 
her. 

"Now  the  'Lorelei.'" 

She  looked  at  Cora,  whose  hand  was  on  her  shoulder, 
and  smiled.  She  had  a  curious  smile. 

Sentiment  ruled  the  hour,  but  that  seemed  exactly  right. 

They  drew  round  with  their  cigarettes. 

"Ich  weiss  nicht  was  soil  es  bedeuten 
Das  ich  so  traurig  bin  .  .  . 

The  sweet,  husky  voice  was  heart-breaking. 

It  seemed  exactly  right. 

The  room  was  exactly  right,  Christopher  saw, —  not 
overloaded  like  the  big  drawing-room  upstairs.  The 
grand  piano,  standing  clear  as  an  island,  occupied  one  side 
of  it,  and  with  a  writing-table  and  a  bookcase  constituted 
all  the  heavier  furniture.  If,  as  he  guessed,  the  room  had 
been  Geraldine's  and  had  now  been  apportioned  to  Cora, 
he  was  sure  that  for  the  attainment  of  its  present  sim- 
plicity, Cora  must  have  done  considerable  discarding. 

"Now  the  'Asra.'  May  we?  If  you  are  n't  tired?  You 
are  n't,  are  you?" 


324  CHRISTOPHER 

"If  you're  not." 

Miss  Pentreath,  who  knew  no  German,  asked  for  the 
song  in  English. 

Mr.  Pargitur  objected.  The  words  were  Heine's.  It  was 
Rubinstein's  setting,  was  n't  it,  of  Heine's  poem? 

Mrs.  Heccadon  nodded. 

"All  the  same—"  said  Miss  Pentreath. 

"Yes,  all  the  same — "  said  Cora. 

So  Mrs.  Heccadon  sang  the  song  in  English,  which  may 
have  been  quite  wrong,  but  which,  like  Miss  St.  Jemison's 
choice  of  her  songs,  and  like  the  room  itself,  seemed  exactly 
right. 

Again  the  sweet,  husky  voice  took  up  its  burden. 

"  Daily  went  the  wondrous  lovely 
Sultan's  daughter,  at  the  cooling 
Hour  of  evening,  to  the  fountain, 
Where  the  waters  white  were  plashing. 

"Daily,  at  the  hour  of  evening, 
Stood  the  young  slave  at  the  fountain 
Where  the  waters  white  were  plashing. 
Daily  grew  he  pale  and  paler. 

"And  one  evening  came  the  princess 
And  these  sudden  words  addressed  him: 
'Thou  must  tell  me  what  thy  name  is, 
And  thy  country  and  thy  kindred.' 

"And  the  slave  replied,  'My  name  is 
Mahomet;  I  came  from  Yemen, 
And  my  race  is  of  the  Asras 
Who,  whene'er  they  love,  must  perish.' " 

Yes,  as  she  sang  it,  it  seemed  exactly  right  —  even 
though,  as  Mr.  Pargitur,  the  purist,  must  needs  point  out, 
the  "wondrous  lovely  Sultan's  daughter"  should  cer- 
tainly have  read  "Sultan's  wondrous  lovely  daughter." 
And  though,  when  they  made  her  sing  it  again,  she  sang 
it,  as  it  should  be  sung,  in  the  original  German,  it  still 
seemed  to  have  been  exactly  right  in  English. 


CHRISTOPHER  325 

Silence  fell  on  the  party  for  a  few  moments  after  that. 

Then  six  young  people  —  Mrs.  Heccadon,  despite  her 
wasted  air,  was  young,  and  the  others  were  all  younger  — 
discussed  the  song  and  its  words. 

"It  was  dreadful, his  dying,"  Miss Pentreath  held.  "She 
ought  to  have  saved  him." 

"You  forget,"  said  Mr.  Pargitur.  "She  was  a  'Lovely 
Sultan's  daughter,'  and  he  was  a  slave." 

"Nothing  could  have  saved  him." 

It  was  Cora  who  said  this. 

"But  eef  she  lofe  'eem  — " 

Monsieur  de  Parencourt. 

"She  did  love  him." 

Cora  again,  and  they  all  looked  at  her. 

"Of  course  she  loved  him.  That  was  why  she  spoke  to 
him.  That  was  why  she  asked  him  his  name.  Above  all, 
that  was  why  she  wanted  to  know  —  well,  just  about  him. 
Everything  about  him:  his  country  and  his  kindred.  It's 
all  in  that.  Of  course  she  loved  him." 

(Oh,  it  is  You,  Christopher  thought  to  himself  once 
more  —  inwardly  aglow  as  he  heard !) 

"Then  eef  she  lofe  'eem  — " 

"Did  n't  she?" 

She  looked  round  for  support,  and  paused  at  Christo- 
pher. But  Christopher  was  n't  sure. 

"He  had  to  die,  of  course.  It  was  the  only  way  of  telling 
her  that  he  loved  her.  But  he  did  that  gladly,  I  believe. 
So  it  was  n't  really  dreadful." 

It  was  as  easy,  he  was  thinking,  to  see  her  as  the  prin- 
cess, as  to  see  himself  as  her  slave. 

And  then  Mrs.  Heccadon  gave  another  rendering  of  the 
story  altogether. 

"No,  she  did  n't  care.  She  was  a  Sultan's  daughter. 
A  Lovely  Sultan's  daughter,  as  Mr.  Pargitur  points  out. 
She  liked  being  a  Lovely  Sultan's  daughter,  but  more, 
even,  she  liked  being  a  Sultan's  Lovely  Daughter.  She 
Jived  deliciously,  like  the  bad  women  in  the  Bible.  She  was 


326  CHRISTOPHER 

accustomed  to  being  loved.  She  made  people  love  her.  If 
they  did  n't,  she  looked  at  them,  and  then  they  did.  She 
looked  at  them  from  under  her  sleepy  eyelids,  which  were 
n't  really  sleepy.  She  did  n't  sleep.  She  was  too  busy 
making  men  love  her,  to  sleep." 

"Oh,  Margot!" 

The  protest  came  from  Miss  Pentreath.  Cora  made  none. 

"She  was.  It's  truth  I'm  telling  you.  All  men  had  to 
love  her.  Even  slaves.  She  wanted  the  love  of  every  man 
in  the  world.  She  had  no  use  for  it,  only  a  need  of  it,  and 
she  got  it  —  got  it  always." 

Cora  was  listening  intently.  She  was  smiling  now. 

"And  he?  The  slave?" 

"She  got  his  too.  She  only  went  to  the  fountain  because 
he  stood  there.  She  was  the  woman  whom  all  men  do 
love." 

"And  did  he  die?"  some  one  asked. 

"He  made  the  poem,  and  that  lived." 

It  fell  to  Pargitur  to  point  out  what  was  obvious:  that 
the  poem  was  made  of  him  —  a  very  different  thing ;  and 
to  Miss  Pentreath,  who  said  she  did  not  understand,  to 
say  further,  "Besides,  I  thought  it  was  Heine  who  made 
the  poem." 

Mrs.  Heccadon  was  not  to  be  trammelled  by  such  acci- 
dentals as  logic  and  fact. 

"Nobody  ever  did  or  was  anything  yet  who  had  not 
been  mortally  hurt.  He  was  a  slave  and  she  turned  him 
into  a  poet,  or  a  poem,  whichever  you  like.  Heine  imagined 
him  because  Heine  knew.  Every  artist  who  has  ever  lived 
knows  —  every  artist.  His  race  is  '  of  the  Asras,  who  when- 
e'er they  love  must  perish.'" 

Christopher  looked  at  her  curiously.  This  was  the  merest 
drawing-room  talk.  In  a  way  she  was  making  up  what  she 
said  as  she  went  along.  She  had  sometimes  seemed  under 
the  dominion  of  one  idea  or  set  of  ideas,  sometimes  of 
another.  She  was  tilting  at  some  one,  but  not  all  through 
at  the  same  person.  He  could  have  believed  that  she  had 


CHRISTOPHER  $27 

two  people  in  mind  for  the  Sultan's  daughter,  only  one 
for  the  slave.  Still,  there  was  a  thought,  however  she 
might  have  entangled  it,  running  through  what  she  said, 
and  upon  this,  as  if  she  perceived  its  presence  and  saw  a 
use  for  it,  she  had  seized.  All  artistic  achievement  was 
arrived  at,  and  only  arrived  at,  at  the  cost  of  suffering. 
She  might  safely  say  that,  and  she  said  it. 

"  I  do  want  to  know  if  he  died,"  said  Miss  Pentreath,  — 
"the  slave,  I  mean,  not  Heine." 

"What  does  it  matter?"  Mrs.  Heccadon  said.  "A  man 
does  n't  always  die  the  day  he's  killed." 

She  rose  from  the  piano  as  she  spoke,  and  became  once 
more  a  rag  of  a  woman  of  rather  debased  type. 

"How  did  you  like  her?"  Cora  asked  Christopher  when 
the  others  had  gone. 

He  had  outstayed  them  all.  The  two  other  men  had 
showed  signs  of  a  reluctance  to  go,  or  of  a  reluctance  to 
leave  him  behind  them.  But  he  had  not  moved.  He  had 
meant  from  the  first  to  outstay  them,  and  he  did.  His 
dread  now  was  that  the  door  would  open  and  Mrs.  Con- 
staple  would  come  in.  The  door  had  opened  once,  but  it 
was  only  to  admit  the  footmen,  who  had  cleared  away  the 
tea.  They  also  were  gone,  and  Cora  and  he  were  alone. 

He  said  the  patent  thing:  that  she  was  wonderful  when 
she  sang. 

"She's  wonderful  always,"  Cora  said.  "But  you're 
quite  right.  She's  an  angel  when  she  sings." 

Christopher  in  the  precious  moments  did  n't  want  to 
talk  of  Mrs.  Heccadon.  Yet  he  felt  constrained  to  talk 
of  her.  The  strange,  beautiful,  husky  voice  seemed  still 
to  linger  in  the  room. 

"She  said,  'A  man  doesn't  always  die  the  day  he's 
killed,'"  he  said.  "What  did  she  mean?" 

"Shall  I  tell  you?  He's  a  beast,  and  she  adores  him.  Any 
one  would.  He 's  that  sort.  But  it  took  him  —  a  man  like 
him  and  a  passion  like  hers  —  to  make  her  wonderful  little 


328  CHRISTOPHER 

singing  what  it  is.  For  it  is  wonderful.  She  has  n't  a  voice 
to  speak  of,  and  she  has  no  particular  method,  and  she's 
as  hoarse  as  a  raven,  and  her  singing  in  its  small  way  is 
divine.  He's  done  that  for  her.  Hopelessness  has  done  that 
for  her.  It's  killed  her  and  made  her  articulate." 

It  was  Mrs.  Heccadon  that  Christopher  was  angry  with 
for  the  things  in  that  little  speech,  which,  in  spite  of  him- 
self, made  him  wince.  She  had  no  right,  he  was  thinking, 
to  speak,  as  it  was  plain  that  she  must  have  spoken,  to  a 
girl. 

Cora  was  looking  at  the  piano,  as  if  she  could  still  see 
Mrs.  Heccadon's  long  slim  hands  on  the  keys.  She  gave 
an  odd  little  soft  laugh. 

"  If  it  is  that,  he's  almost  justified,  is  n't  he?" 

"Why  do  you  hurt  me  like  this?"  Christopher  broke 
out  suddenly. 

"Hurt  you?" 

She  was  genuinely  surprised.  There  was  no  pretence 
about  the  look  of  enquiry  which  she  turned  on  him. 

"Yes,  hurt  me.  You  did,  the  other  night,  and  you're 
hurting  me  now.  No,  you  don't  know  why  you're  doing 
it  now  —  in  what  way,  I  mean.  I  see  that.  But  you  knew, 
the  other  night,  and  it  did  n't  stop  you." 

"Was  that  why  you  kept  away?" 

"Of  course  it  was  why  I  kept  away.  Do  you  think  it 
was  easy?" 

"I  don't  know  what  I  think,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
hesitation,  "except  —  except  that  you're  talking  very 
strangely." 

Christopher  felt  penitent  at  once. 

"  I  suppose  I  am.  I  suppose  I  have  from  the  very  first. 
I  suppose  — " 

He  broke  off. 

She  looked  to  see  why. 

"  That  was  n't  Heccadon?"  he  said.  "That  was  n't  her 
husband?" 

"Of  course  that  was  Mr.  Heccadon.  Of  course  that  W9B 


CHRISTOPHER  329 

her  husband.    Why  should  n't  Reggie  Heccadon  be  her 
husband?" 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"More  even  than  I  knew,"  he  was  thinking. 

The  oddest  string  of  Buts  was  in  his  mind.  "  But  I  did 
n't  know  he  was  married,"  alternated  with  "But  he  dines 
out  without  her."  "But  he  made  love  to  you"  —  a  diffi- 
cult But,  this,  even  to  put  into  the  thought  which  hardly 
needs  words.  "But  you  let  him";  a  more  difficult  still. 
"But  Mrs.  Constaple  asks  him  without  her?"  and  "But 
she  calls  him  Reggie  as  if  she  liked  him,"  were  in  some  sort 
variants  of  one  thought.  "But  you  kissed  her"  summed 
up  all  these  Buts.  "But  you  kissed  her":  all  these  Buts 
put  together! 

The  pause  let  her  see  something  of  what  he  was  thinking. 
She  picked  out  the  most  obvious  of  his  protests  and  dealt 
with  it. 

"She  won't  dine  out  with  him  if  she  can  help  it.  Most 
people  know  that  now." 

That  did  not  seem  to  make  it  any  better  —  did  not  even 
sound  to  make  it  better.  Cora  may  have  felt  this. 

"They  both  dine  here,  but  they  dine  on  separate  nights. 
It's  an  understood  thing.  People  who  know  fall  in  with 
the  arrangement;  people  who  don't — just  blunder.  They 
have  plenty  of  the  same  friends,  and  plenty  of  different 
ones.  They  go  their  own  ways." 

"And  when  people  dine  with  them?" 

"Oh,  well,  I  suppose  they  manage  to  discriminate  at 
their  own  parties.  I  don't  know,  for  I  've  never  been.  The 
Constaples  dine  with  them  sometimes." 

Christopher's  expression  may  have  asked  what  he  did 
not. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  answering  his  thought.  "I  don't  know. 
Perhaps  she  does  n't  mind  what  she  does  n't  see." 

It  came  back  to  the  last  of  his  Buts. 

"She  sings  beautifully,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  pause  after  that.   He  thought  of  the  pale 


330  CHRISTOPHER 

dissatisfied  face,  and  the  curiously  beautiful  husky  voice. 
He  believed  that  she  did  mind  what  she  did  n't  see,  that 
she  knew  all  that  she  chose  to  ignore. 

"I  think  she  sings  more  beautifully  than  any  one  I 
know,"  Cora  said  in  course  of  time. 

The  tones  of  her  voice  struck  him  again,  and  he  re- 
membered irrelevantly  that  he  had  not  even  yet  learned 
whether  she  herself  sang.  If  she  did,  he  thought  that  he 
would  expect  her  singing  voice  to  be  not  unlike  Mrs.  Hec- 
cadon's.  The  thought  pointed  the  scantiness  of  his  know- 
ledge of  her.  How  little  he  knew  of  her!  She  was  so  infi- 
nitely much  to  him,  and  he  knew  her  scarcely  at  all. 

They  had  got  away  from  what  they  were  saying. 

He  went  back  to  it  with  the  words  which  had  broken 
from  him  before. 

"Why  do  you  hurt  me?  Why  do  you  want  to  hurt  me?  " 

"How  do  I  hurt  you?  I  don't  want  to." 

"Then  why  do  you?" 

"I  don't  willingly.  I  thought  you  would  have  sat  next 
me  at  the  theatre  the  other  night.  I  made  Charlie  Harrin- 
gay  move.  I  meant  that  place  for  you.  You  would  n't 
take  it." 

"You  would  have  driven  with  that  man  in  his  hansom." 
It  was  out  now.  He  could  not  recall  it,  and  he  let  himself  go. 

"You  talked  to  him  the  whole  evening.  No,  not  the 
whole  evening.  That  was  what  was  cruel.  Before  dinner 
you — well,  it  was  wonderful.  I  could  hardly  believe  my 
good  fortune.  Then  think — think  of  dinner ;  think  of  after 
dinner.  I  don't  know  what  right  I  have  to  —  to  talk  to 
you  like  this.  None,  I  suppose,  unless  suffering  gives  one 
a  right.  I  was  in  pain,  I  tell  you.  I  am  now.  I  —  I  am 
now." 

He  turned  away  from  her,  and  leaning  upon  the  piano 
he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  Don't  speak  to  me,"  he  said.  "Just  for  a  minute,  don't 
speak  to  me." 

She  could  hear  him  breathe  hard.   She  could  see  his 


CHRISTOPHER  331 

fingers  pressing  against  his  forehead  and  his  hair.  Neither 
spoke  for  some  seconds. 

He  had  not  meant  thus  to  precipitate  matters.  He  had 
not  come,  indeed,  with  any  formed  plan.  He  had  come 
because  she  had  asked  him  —  because,  her  invitation  hav- 
ing made  it  possible  for  him  to  go  to  the  house  again,  he 
could  not  have  kept  away. 

She  did  not  move  or  speak.  She  was  standing,  he  knew, 
by  the  hearth,  just  as  she  had  stood  a  fortnight  ago  in  the 
drawing-room,  her  arm  against  the  mantelpiece.  Then 
there  had  been  a  fire;  now,  the  spring  having  come  in 
earnest,  there  was  none.  She  was  quite  still.  She  had  the 
gift  of  stillness  in  a  very  unusual  degree. 

He  took  his  hands  from  his  face  and  brushed  back  his 
hair.  He  came  over  to  her  and  stood,  too,  by  the  mantel- 
piece. 

"So  you  see  how  it  is  with  me,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

SHE  would  and  she  would  not.  She  was  Dear  Lady  Dis- 
dain of  the  pantomime  song  of  thereabouts  who  "would  n't 
say  Yes  "and  who  "would  n't  say  No";  and  Christopher, 
happy  and  unhappy,  unhappy  and  happy,  was  heard  and 
unanswered. 

For  him  something  enormous  had  happened  —  some- 
thing to  which  his  whole  life,  with  everything  that  it  held, 
had  been  leading.  For  her  something  had  happened,  too, 
but  —  or  he  fancied  so  —  had  happened  as  accidents  hap- 
pen. For  him  this  something  was  from  within;  for  her  — 
and  here  was  his  deadly  fear!  —  from  without?  But  she 
did  not  repulse  him. 

It  was  difficult  afterwards  to  know  exactly  how  she 
avoided  —  if  she  did  avoid !  —  committing  herself  in  words. 
For  she  heard  him  out.  He  did  not  attempt  to  touch  her 
as  he  spoke.  Perhaps  he  knew  that  at  that  moment  he 
could  not  have  trusted  himself  even  to  take  her  hand. 
They  stood  a  yard  and  a  half  apart  and  looked  down,  or 
looked  at  each  other  from  time  to  time,  and  sometimes  for 
moments  together  they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes. 
She  never  tried  to  evade  his  look.  He  could  have  believed 
that,  if  she  did  not  understand,  she  was  trying  to.  She 
had  the  virginal  look  at  such  times  that  was  part  of  her 
extraordinary  charm.  He  could  have  thrown  himself  at 
her  feet  as  he  saw  it,  and  clasped  her  about  the  knees, 
hiding  his  face  in  her  skirt. 

"You  knew  I  loved  you,"  he  said. 

"I  thought  you  were  going  to." 

"I've  loved  you  ever  since  the  day  I  saw  you  at  the 
station.  Before  that,  I  think,  myself.  Since  that,  all  the 
time.  Something  must  have  reached  you  from  me.  That 


CHRISTOPHER  333 

day,  the  day  I  first  saw  you,  —  were  n't  you  conscious  of 
something?" 

"I've  told  you  that  I  was." 

"But  later.   In  the  night." 

She  shook  her  head  —  and  even  as  -she  did  so  arrested 
the  movement. 

"In  the  night?" 

She  looked  at  him  now  as  if  she  saw  past  him. 

"I  —  I  do  remember,"  she  said. 

"What?" 

"I  couldn't  sleep.  I  always  sleep.  That's  why  I  re- 
member. I  could  n't  that  night.  We  were  at  Brussels. 
I  could  hear  the  noises  in  the  streets,  but  it  was  n't  that. 
It  was  as  if  I  were  not  being  allowed  to  sleep.  As  if  I  were 
being  kept  awake.  How  odd  that  you  should  ask  me  about 
that  night.  One  of  the  few  nuits  blanches  in  my  life." 

A  glow  came  into  his  face. 

"I  —  you'll  think  it  ridiculous  —  I  believe  I  kept  you 
awake." 

"You?" 

"I  believe  so." 

"How  could  you?" 

"I  was  trying  to." 

"To  keep  me  awake?  In  Brussels?  From  here,  do  you 
mean?  From  London?" 

"Fromjermyn  Street,  to  be  exact.  I  had  rooms  there, 
then.  I  did  n't  think  distance  would  make  any  difference. 
I  did  n't  know  where  you  were.  I  did  n't  think  that  would 
make  any  difference  either.  I  wanted  to  get  a  thought 
through  to  you,  wherever  you  were.  It  was  the  only  way 
I  could  communicate  with  you  —  if  it  was  a  way.  I  wanted 
so  badly  to  communicate  with  you,  even  then.  If  'it'  — 
what  I  told  you  —  was  You,  I  thought  I  should  get  a 
thought  through.  I  believed  that  by  battering  you  with 
thoughts  —  that 's  the  way  I  expressed  it  to  myself,  I 
remember  —  I  might  hope  to,  anyway."  He  faced  her 
steadily,  and  she  as  steadily  faced  him.  "Did  I?" 


334  CHRISTOPHER 

"I  don't  know.  I  think  I  may  have  thought  of  you. 
But  then,  you  see,  I  could  n't  sleep.  It  would  be  probable 
that  I  should  think  of  all  that  had  happened  in  the  day. 
One  does  when  one  is  travelling.  The  mind's  eye  is  full 
of  images  then.  The  odd  thing  is  that  I  should  n't  have 
slept  .  .  ." 

" '  Battering '  me  with  thoughts — "  she  said  after  a  mo- 
ment or  two.  "But  it  was  rather  like  that  —  I  mean 
that  I  can  conceive  that  if  it  were  possible  to  be  conscious 
of  such  a  thing  — " 

She  did  not  finish  her  sentence. 

"You  see,"  he  said. 

To  him  the  proof  was  positive. 

She  was  again  the  mysterious  companion  of  his  dreams 
—  the  "long-expected  come  at  last."  For  the  moment,  in 
the  strangeness  of  this  further  discovery,  he  lost  sight  of  the 
other  Cora  who  had  the  power  to  hurt  him  so  grievously.  He 
forgot  even  that  it  was  this  other  Cora  who  had  brought 
him  back  to  the  first.  He  remembered  presently,  and  de- 
liberately put  the  thought  away  from  him.  He  may  have 
recognised  that  the  other  Cora  was  not  without  an  appeal 
for  him.  He  had  always  known  that  there  was  something 
in  her  appearance  which  she  shared  with  strange  types. 

"What  are  you  going  to  say  to  me?"  he  said  at  length. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  say  to  you?" 

It  was  almost  what  she  had  said  before. 

"You  know  what  I  want  to  hear  you  say,"  he  said.  " If 
you  can  say  it!  Oh,  if  you  could!  'But  what  I  want  is  n't 
the  point.  It's  what  you  feel  that  matters." 

He  came  a  little  nearer  to  her,  but  still  did  not  touch  her. 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  care  for  me,  or  come  to  care  for 
me,  enough  to  marry  me?  Not  at  once,  perhaps  not  for 
some  time.  I  've  waited  so  long  —  I  anyway  believe  myself 
to  have  waited  so  long !  —  that  I  'm  prepared  to  go  on  wait- 
ing. But  I  want  to  know  that  there  is  you  at  the  end 
of  my  waiting.  I  don't  suppose  you  could  ever  know  what 
it  would  be  to  me  to  know  that." 


CHRISTOPHER  335 

She  did  not  speak  for  a  moment  or  two. 

"You  seem  so  sure  that  I  am  the  right  person,"  she  said 
then. 

"I  am  sure." 

"I  am  not  sure  that  I  am." 

"Sure?  —  or  the  right  person?" 

"Either." 

Again  there  was  a  pause. 

"Or,"  she  added,  "even  if  I  should  be,  that  you  are." 

Ah,  Christopher  felt,  that  was  another  question.  It  was 
also,  however,  what  he  wanted  to  know. 

He  had  to  go  without  knowing,  nevertheless.  For  now 
the  door  did  open,  and  Mrs.  Constaple,  back  from  her 
drive,  her  arms  full  of  little  dogs,  put  her  head  in. 

If  she  thought  at  all,  she  must  have  thought  that  Chris- 
topher and  Cora  were  generally  to  be  discovered  upon  op- 
posite sides  of  a  hearth,  talking  or  not  talking,  rather  ear- 
nestly. 

But  it  was,  Don't  move,  Mr.  Herrick,  for  she  was  not 
going  to  stop.  She  wanted  to  get  her  hat  off,  and  was  late 
for  her  rest  before  dinner,  and  how  had  the  party  gone? 

It  had  all  gone,  Christopher  said,  but  himself. 

Mrs.  Constaple  wished  she  could  have  been  there. 

"And  Margot  Heccadon?   Did  she  sing?" 

"Like  an  angel,"  Cora  said. 

That  was  just  how  Mrs.  Heccadon  did  sing,  was  n't  it, 
Mr.  Herrick?  And  good-bye  to  him.  He  was  not  to  stir. 

She  shook  up  her  dogs  and  disappeared. 

But  it  was  a  break,  and  Christopher  felt  he  must  go. 

Cora  had  n't  answered  him.  He  tried  to  get  back  to  what 
they  had  been  saying  before  the  interruption,  but  he  could 
not.  He  believed  that  Cora  tried,  too,  or  that,  at  any  rate, 
she  did  not  try  to  prevent  his  doing  so. 

"When  shall  I  see  you  again?"  he  said  desperately. 

"Sunday?" 

"  I  can't  wait  till  Sunday." 


336  CHRISTOPHER 

She  thought  for  a  moment  or  two. 

"We're  going  to  parties  and  things  most  days.  Are  n't 
you?  Don't  you  go  to  things?  Where  are  you  going  to- 
night?" 

Christopher  thought  of  a  little  stack  of  cards  on  his 
table.  He  had  been  neglecting  them. 

"I  believe  I've  got  a  dance  to-night  somewhere.  Yes, 
a  Lady  Something  in  Park  Street." 

"Lady  Reigate's.  We're  going  there.  Do  come.  Will 
you?" 

"Of  course  I  will." 

"We  may  be  a  little  late.  We're  going  to  a  concert  first 
—  but  only  round  the  corner  in  Brook  Street.  I  '11  see  that 
Mrs.  Constaple  does  n't  stop  there  too  long." 

"Till  to-night,  then,"  said  Christopher. 

"Till  to-night,"  she  echoed. 

He  tried  to  say  something  more,  but  could  not  find 
words. 

"Till  to-night,"  he  said  again. 

No,  she  had  not  repulsed  him. 

He  was  in  Park  Street  by  a  quarter  to  twelve. 

Thenceforward,  for  a  space,  his  life  seemed  to  be  lived  to 
the  tune,  and  the  tunes,  of  dance-music.  Dance-music 
never  seemed  to  be  quite  out  of  his  ears,  nor  the  throbbing 
of  floors.  He  was  always,  so  it  seemed  now,  arriving  at 
lit-up  awninged  houses,  and  giving  up  his  coat  and  hat, 
and  making  the  slow  ascent  of  crowded  staircases,  and 
being  announced,  and  shaking  hands  with  a  tiara  and  a 
bouquet,  and  two  tall  ivy-wreaths  or  rose-wreaths  (the 
reign  of  the  tall  girl  was  beginning),  and  passing  on  into 
crowded  rooms  where  the  band  of  the  moment  was  playing 
the  tunes  which  pulsed  in  his  ears  all  day  long.  And  he 
was  always  looking  for  one  face  amongst  the  faces.  He 
made  many  friends,  and,  inevitably,  a  few  enemies.  These 
were  the  days  of  Christopher's  ball-dancing. 


CHRISTOPHER  337 

And,  as  he  was  always  arriving  and  pushing  his  way 
through  crowds,  and  looking  round,  and  dancing,  or  not 
dancing,  and  eating,  and  not  hungry  enough  to  eat,  hot 
quails  or  cutlets  or  devilled'  chicken  and  expensive  fruit,  — 
the  early  peach,  the  forced  or  first  strawberry,  —  so  he 
seemed  always  to  be  going  on  somewhere  else,  to  precisely 
similar  conditions  and  doings.  It  was  all  very  delightful, 
and  he  enjoyed  or  thought  he  enjoyed  it.  The  cards  came 
tumbling  in.  He  looked  upon  them  as  so  many  lottery 
tickets,  by  the  use  of  which  he  might  draw  or  not  draw 
the  sight  of  Cora.  Often  it  was  no  more  than  the  sight  of 
her,  for  not  always  could  the  disposal  of  their  evenings 
take  them  in  the  same  direction ;  and  very  often  he  drew 
blanks.  An  evening,  at  this  time,  was  an  evening  gained 
or  lost  to  him,  according  as  it  held  or  did  not  hold  Cora. 

She  had  not  answered  him.  He  could  scarcely  have  told 
how  it  came  that  she  had  not  answered  him.  She  had  never 
definitely  refused  to  answer  him,  and  she  had  never  re- 
pulsed him.  She  always  heard  him  —  heard  him  gladly 
even.  She  always  seemed  glad  to  see  him,  and  she  would 
always  dance  with  him.  Whoever  went  without  dances, 
it  was  never  Christopher.  In  his  utmost  jealousy  he  could 
never  say  that  she  refused  him  what  she  gave  to  others. 
She  called  him  Christopher  and  he  called  her  Cora.  But 
she  just  did  not  answer. 

So  things  went  on,  Christopher  doing  no  work  nor  at- 
tempting to  do  any.  His  ink-bottle  would  lose  its  power 
of  speech  altogether,  if  he  were  not  careful.  His  days  like 
his  nights  were  full.  There  were  a  hundred  pleasant  (yet 
always  disappointing)  calls  upon  his  time.  He  idled  with 
the  idlest — spent  mornings  and  afternoons  doing  nothing. 
Riding  in  the  Park  in  the  afternoon  was  going  out  then, 
but  —  the  motor  had  not  come  yet  to  rout  the  horses — all 
who  had  carriages  drove  there  in  those  days.  You  hung 
over  the  railings  and  you  took  off  your  hat. 


338  CHRISTOPHER 

Christopher  would  watch  for  one  carriage  amongst  the 
carriages,  which  were  so  thick  on  the  drive  that  you 
could  have  crossed  it  walking  on  the  backs  of  the  horses. 
Every  now  and  then  the  procession  would  be  held  up,  and 
accumulations  of  people  afoot  would  get  from  one  side 
of  the  road  to  the  other.  Or  a  more  distinguished  sort  of 
holding-up  would  be  observed,  and  there  would  be  a  flut- 
ter, and  a  mounted  policeman  would  appear,  heralding  the 
driving  of  the  Queen  herself,  or  the  Princess  of  Wales. 
But  it  was  not  a  royal  carriage  which  Christopher  watched 
for. 

He  would  see  it  and  lose  it  again  in  the  throng.  Some- 
times he  would  be  seen  by  one  or  other  of  its  occupants, 
and  he  would  get  a  cordial  nod  and  smile;  or  perhaps  he 
would  be  beckoned  to,  and  would  be  picked  up  and  driven, 
too,  sitting  opposite  to  Cora,  if  possible,  and  remembering 
always  (with  the  knowledge  hugged  tight  that  he  could 
call  her  Cora!)  to  address  her  as  Miss  St.  Jemison.  Or  he 
would  see  the  carriage  draw  up  near  the  Achilles  statue,  and 
Mrs.  Constaple  and  Cora  would  get  out,  to  sit  for  an  hour 
on  green  chairs  in  the  Row,  where  —  the  lawns  not  yet 
discovered  —  it  was  the  fashion  to  sit  then,  before  hurrying 
off  to  dress  for  dinner.  Here  Christopher,  a  tall  slim  figure 
in  rigorous  London  clothes,  would  join  them. 

He  lunched  and  dined  often  in  Grosvenor  Street.  He 
was  a  usefully  unattached  male,  and  Mrs.  Constaple  in 
want  of  a  man  would  say,  "Oh,  write  and  ask  Christopher 
Herrick,"  or  "  I'll  send  young  Herrick  a  wire,"  or  "  Remind 
me,  if  we  see  him,  to  ask  him  if  he  can  come  with  us  to  the 
So-and-So's  on  such-and-such  a  day.  I  promised  to  bring 
a  man." 

So  most  days  they  met  —  often  more  than  once;  and 
Christopher  still  was  unanswered. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

BUT  though  the  days  went  by  and  Cora  kept  him  marking 
time,  Christopher,  to  his  continued  surprise,  did  not  for  a 
moment  lose  the  feeling  that  things  were  still  moving  for 
him,  and  even  moving  quickly.  It  was  a  little  disturbing, 
this  feeling,  for,  so  far  as  he  could  see,  nothing  was  moving 
at  all  except  the  days,  which  were  hurrying  him  towards 
Whitsuntide.  It  was  quite  suddenly,  one  day,  that  he 
knew  that  it  was  towards  this  very  period — the  time 
dedicated  by  one  body  of  people  to  holiday-making,  and 
by  another  to  a  commemoration  of  the  outpouring  of  the 
Spirit  of  God  upon  a  handful  of  men  in  Judea,  causing 
them  to  speak  with  tongues  and  to  prophesy  —  that  he 
and  his  affairs  were  being  hurried  with  the  days. 

Something  would  happen  then.  He  was  sure  of  it  — 
knew  it;  but  there  he  paused.  Why  he  should  look  to 
Whitsuntide  for  issues,  unless  that,  making  a  break  in  the 
succession  of  the  crowded  days,  it  might  be  expected  to 
break  the  continuity  of  other  things  also,  he  knew  no  more 
than  he  knew  what  it  was  that  was  to  happen.  Some- 
thing, however,  —  of  this  he  was  persuaded ;  and  with 
curious  emotions,  from  which  apprehension  was  not  wholly 
absent,  he  saw  the  approach  of  the  few  days  which  would 
separate  him  from  Cora. 

To  the  recess  itself,  he  had  in  any  case  been  looking 
forward  with  mixed  feelings  of  relief  and  regret.  The  strain 
of  uncertainty  was  beginning  to  tell  on  him.  He  would  not 
have  admitted  that  he  was  tired,  but  he  hoped  in  his  heart, 
rather  fervently,  that  it  was  that  only  —  just  rest  that  he 
wanted;  and,  more  fervently  still,  he  hoped  that  Cora 
wanted  rest. 

For  surely  there  was  something  strange  about  Cora  just 


340  CHRISTOPHER 

then.  Was  there  any  change  in  her?  —  any  change,  how- 
ever impalpable?  He  could  point  to  none.  She  was  always 
delightful,  always  ready  to  talk  to  him,  always  ready  to 
dance  with  him;  but  just  sometimes  —  and  most  unjusti- 
fiably he  connected  the  man  he  disliked  with  this  —  he 
found  himself  reminded,  by  some  little  look  of  hers  or  ac- 
tion, of  the  feeling  which  he  had  had  when  he  parted  with 
her  after  the  memorable  meeting  in  Sloane  Street  —  the 
feeling  that  for  some  reason  or  other  she  wished  the  crowd 
to  engulf  her — to  receive  her,  as  has  been  said,  out  of  his 
sight.  Put  into  other  words,  though  Christopher  would  not 
have  put  the  thought  into  any,  he  was  feeling  that  not 
all  Cora's  thinkings  or  doings  were  known  to  him.  So, 
harassed  and  perplexed,  he  looked  to  the  rest  of  the  coming 
holiday  to  ease  his  own  nerves  and  hers.  It  was  nerves,  of 
course,  nothing  but  nerves. 

Mr.  St.  Jemison  was  at  Harrogate,  where  Cora  was  to 
join  him.  Christopher  had  accepted  the  thought  of  the 
three  days'  separation  as  inevitable.  No  alternative  had 
suggested  itself  to  him.  But  now,  with  the  conviction  that 
Whitsuntide  was  to  be  momentous,  he  conceived  that  the 
disposition  of  his  own  movements  must  be  involved.  From 
that,  though  he  was  expected  at  Herrickswood,  it  was  only 
a  step  to  the  idea  that  perhaps  it  was  intended  by  those 
powers,  whatever  they  were,  which  seemed  to  decide  his 
fate  for  him,  that  there  should  be  no  separation  —  that 
he  should  go  to  Harrogate  too! 

The  thought  sent  him  flying  to  Cora,  whom  he  ran  to 
earth  in  the  Park.  Without  much  difficulty  he  managed 
to  detach  her  from  Mrs.  Constaple. 

The  thought  of  three  days  with  her  —  away  from  the 
racket  of  the  town  —  filled  him  with  excitement. 

"  Do  you  know  I  Ve  never  walked  with  you?"  he  began, 
his  eyes  shining.  If  he  had  put  his  hands  to  his  cheeks, 
as  he  did  sometimes,  he  would  have  found  them  glowing. 

"You  often  walk  with  me.  You're  walking  with  me 
now." 


CHRISTOPHER  341 

"On  a  path,"  said  Christopher.  "I  meant  the  open 
country.  Wind  in  your  face.  Perhaps  rain." 

All  the  walks  that  he  had  ever  taken  rose  before  him. 
He  had  a  vision  of  gorse  and  broom  and  heather;  of  up- 
lands and  woods;  of  mossy  hollows  and  lonely  places;  of 
twilights  and  nightfalls  and  nights ;  of  ploughed  fields  and 
fields  of  corn;  of  straight  avenues  of  trees,  long  white 
roads,  —  roads  like  white  ribands  winding  through  a  valley 
or  over  hills,  roads  like  the  beds  of  streams. 

"We're  going  to  walk,"  he  said. 

"Oh!"  said  Cora. 

"Walk,"  he  repeated. 

"Where?" 

"We'll  find  walks.  Where  is  there  that  one  could  n't? 
I  've  found  walks  in  the  Black  Country.  I  remember  a  visit 
to  a  boy  I  was  at  school  with,  who  lived  in  the  heart  of  it. 
There  was  a  black  canal,  with  black  mud  on  the  towing 
paths,  and  tunnels  —  such  wonderful  tunnels.  Oh,  there  '11 
be  walks,  right  enough,  where  I  mean.  Cora,  we're  going 
for  such  walks!" 

"Where  do  you  mean?"  she  said.  But  she  caught  some- 
thing of  the  glow  of  his  ardour.  "I  should  like  to  walk 
with  you.  I  believe  you  're  one  of  the  few  people  one  could 
walk  with.  Yes,  I  'm  quite  sure  I  could  walk  with  you." 

"  Listen  then,  I  'm  coming  to  Harrogate.  I  can't  imagine 
why  I  did  n't  think  of  it  before.  To  another  hotel,  of  course, 
but  we'll  spend  long  days  together.  It's  there  we're  going 
to  find  the  walks.  Why  did  n't  I  think  of  it?  It's  all  as  easy 
as  winking.  I  Ve  only  to  write  for  a  room  somewhere, 
and  there  we  are  with  the  world  before  us.  Three  whole 
days.  Think.  Three  whole  days !" 

Cora  had  turned  startled  eyes  on  him. 

"But,  Christopher,  you  can't,"  she  said,  as  soon  as  she 
could  get  in  a  word.  "You  can't  possibly." 

"Why  not?" 

"It's  out  of  the  question." 

"But  why?" 


342  CHRISTOPHER 

"Out  of  the  question,"  she  repeated.  One  might  have 
supposed  her  taken  aback  —  without  reasons  ready. 

"But,  Cora,  it  isn't.  I  might  have  been  going  there 
anyway." 

"You  might,  but  you  weren't.  You  were  going  to 
Herrickswood.  Why  should  you  change?  And  —  and 
you  forget:  my  father's  there." 

Perhaps  at  the  back  of  his  mind  it  was  because  her  father 
was  at  Harrogate  that  he  believed  he  was  to  go  there.  If, 
as  he  was  certain,  Whitsuntide  was  to  prove  "momentous," 
is  must  surely  be  in  connection  with  the  announcing,  and 
so  the  confirming,  of  their  engagement.  He  wanted  the 
thing  sanctioned,  settled.  He  wanted,  in  the  character  of 
the  suitor,  which  he  was,  for  Cora's  hand,  to  see  Cora's 
father,  that  he  might  see  and  might  tell  his  own  people; 
his  mother  —  her  message  to  him  on  the  water  had  reached 
him,  maybe?  —  his  mother,  with  John  Hemming,  of  course, 
—  and  his  grandmother.  There  was  always  present  to  him 
the  knowledge  that  there  were  three  persons,  in  different 
parts  of  England,  each  of  whom  might  with  reason,  though 
for  reasons  which  varied,  claim  the  right  to  information 
at  first-hand. 

"  I  know,"  he  said. 

"  So,  anyway,  it  would  n't  be  any  use.  How  could  we  go 
for  those  walks?  When  I  walked,  it  would  be  with  him." 

"Why  not  tell  him?  He  must  be  told  sometime.  Why 
not  now?" 

She  knew  how  much  he  wished  this.  But  she  shook  her 
head. 

He  did  not  urge  her,  knowing  that  she  knew. 

He  did  not  tell  her  either  that  he  was  looking  confidently 
to  the  happening  of  something  —  looking  to  the  happening 
of  anything.  He  bowed  to  her  decision  about  her  father, 
as  he  had  tacitly  bowed  to  it  —  or  one  like  it  —  all  along. 
But  —  really  believing  that  he  was  to  go  to  Harrogate  — 
he  did  not  see  at  once  that  it  was  this,  and  just  this,  that 
he  was  not  to  do. 


CHRISTOPHER  343 

"We  could  even  travel  up  together!" 

"No,"  she  said  firmly,  "we  could  n't,  for  you're  going 
to  Herrickswood." 

"Not  unless  you  say  so." 

He  was  n't  sure  even  yet. 

" I  do  say  so.  You're  going  to  Herrickswood." 

He  persisted  for  a  few  moments,  impelled,  now,  rather 
by  the  thought  of  what  the  three  days  would  mean  to  him, 
than  by  the  idea  of  assisting  fate  in  its  workings.  It  was 
difficult  to  give  up  the  pictured  walks.  But  Cora,  for  some 
reason  or  other,  did  not  wish  him  to  go  to  Harrogate. 

It  was  not  to  be  Harrogate,  then?  If  it  was,  she  would 
relent.  His  faith  unshaken  though  his  spirits  damped,  he 
waited  for  a  sign. 

The  week  which  ended  the  first  half  of  the  season  was  a 
very  full  one,  and  he  and  Cora  met  twice  that  evening.  In 
Queen  Street  there  was  every  facility  for  conversation, 
every  inducement  even  —  music:  gold  chairs  in  rows,  and 
a  hostess  going  about  saying  S-s-sh.  But  here  by  ill-luck 
Christopher,  standing  in  a  doorway,  was  divided  from 
Cora  by  rows  and  rows  of  the  talkative  musical  chairs.  So 
Queen  Street  was  drawn  blank.  Chesham  Place,  where  a 
ball  was  in  full  swing  when  he  got  there,  yielded  nothing 
either.  There  Mrs.  Constaple,  knocked  up  by  her  exer- 
tions, stayed  only  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  the  one 
dance  which  Cora  danced,  she  danced,  not  with  Chris- 
topher, but  with  Heccadon.  That  evening,  then,  in  addi- 
tion to  giving  him  no  sign,  was  one  of  those  which  to  Chris- 
topher counted  for  lost. 

Nor  was  the  next  nor  the  next  any  better.  Each  of  them 
held  Cora,  it  is  true,  but  a  Cora  who  gave  no  sign,  and  each 
of  them  somehow  held  Heccadon  .  .  . 

If  it  was  to  be  anywhere  it  was  plainly  to  be  Herricks- 
wood ;  and  to  Herrickswood,  while  Cora  journeyed  to  Har- 
rogate, a  Christopher,  whose  spirits  alternated  curiously 


344  CHRISTOPHER 

between  depression  and  exaltation,  took  a  despondent  and 
expectant  way. 

Nothing  could  have  been  better  for  him  than  the  atmo- 
sphere of  the  quiet  old  house.  He  was  really  tired,  perhaps, 
by  the  life  of  these  last  few  weeks,  as  well  as  strained  by 
what  he  had  been  going  through  mentally  and  spiritually, 
as  he  lived  it,  and  in  the  calm  of  the  placid  rooms  and  the 
sense  of  restfulness  which  pervaded  it,  he  lost  some  of  the 
apprehensions  which  had  beset  him.  Fatima  was  there, 
moreover,  and  between  her  and  his  grandmother,  he  was 
kept  talking  and  listening  at  a  time  when  it  was  the  best 
thing  in  the  world  for  him  to  have  to  do  both. 

Would  anything  happen  at  Herrickswood?  It  seemed 
unlikely.  But  he  was  glad  he  had  come.  His  grandmother 
wanted  to  hear  of  his  doings,  and  seemed  pleased  to  be 
told  of  the  life  he  was  leading.  She  had  plenty  to  say. 

"Yes,  I  sent  in  your  name  to  two  or  three  people.  A 
word 's  useful  here  and  there,  though  things  are  all  pretty 
much  changed,  I  fancy,  since  my  day.  Half  the  people 
you  speak  of  we  'd  never  heard  of.  The  Reigate  woman  I 
remember.  She  was  plain  Mrs.  then,  and  he  had  as  much 
chance  of  a  peerage  as  his  butler.  The  What  's-their-names 
—  Lord!  is  she  still  taking  daughters  out?  You  don't  tell 
me  so !  The  youngest  must  be  an  old  woman.  The  Oaking- 
tons  —  have  you  come  across  them?  Lady  Mary  I  knew 
very  well  at  one  time.  She  was  a  Cuthbridge  —  married 
her  cousin.  There  was  a  ball  at  the  Claverhouses,  I  hear. 
Were  you  there?  And  why  not,  pray?" 

This  was  a  life  that  she  knew.  This  was  a  life  that  came 
into  the  Herrick  code.  You  were  expected  to  lead  it.  She 
had  known  every  one  of  importance  in  her  own  day,  and 
had  an  arrogant  contempt  for  the  new  names. 

She  shook  her  head  over  a  few  of  those  she  heard  now. 

"  I  should  like,  with  a  blue  pencil,  to  go  through  a  list  of 
some  of  the  houses  that  my  grandson,  it  seems,  is  willing 
to  go  to  —  yes,  with  a  good  fat  blue  pencil." 


CHRISTOPHER  345 

"These  are  demi-democratic  days,  you  see,"  said  Ance- 
bel-Fatima  sagely,  and  wondered  why  Christopher,  whom 
she  believed  herself  to  be  championing,  tweaked  her  pig- 
tail affectionately  and  smiled. 

Mrs.  Herrick  smiled  too. 

"They're  demi-e  very  thing  days,  my  dear.  You've  hit 
half  your  word  to  a  nicety." 

She  pinched  Fatima's  cheek  and  returned  to  her  argu- 
ment. 

"Jane  Claverhouse  goes  to  extremes  and  may  be  called 
a  snob  for  her  pains,  but,  upon  my  word,  there's  some- 
thing to  be  said  for  a  woman  who  keeps  up  the  traditions. 
If  more  people  had  refused  to  open  their  doors  so  inde- 
cently wide,  what  we  used  to  call  society,  and  now  don't 
call  anything  at  all,  would  n't  be  in  the  poor  state  —  which 
is  the  rich  state,  maybe !  —  that  it 's  in  now.  It  is  n't  hard 
to  see  how  things  are  tending.  People  used  to  be  in  the 
world  or  out  of  it.  Soon  there'll  be  so  many  people  in  it, 
that  there  won't  be  any  left  to  be  out  of  it;  and  that  will 
be  the  end  of  everything.  Go  to  the  Claverhouses  when 
they  ask  you." 

"They  did  n't  ask  me,"  said  Christopher  modestly. 

"Oh,  well,  they  will  another  time.  I  can  promise  you 
that.  Go  to  that  sort  of  house,  and  never  mind  your 
Reigates  and  MacGadarenes.  Both  houses  are  open  to 
you,  but  not  quite  at  the  same  time.  You'll  have  to 
choose." 

Christopher  listened.  He  knew  that  the  conditions  to 
which  his  grandmother's  philosophy  applied  were  passing. 
The  vision  of  Peter  —  reversed,  perhaps  —  had  been  seen 
anew. 

"  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  Margaret  Constaple  's  the  best 
Child's  Guide  for  you,  though  I  don't  forget  that  it  was  I 
introduced  you  to  her.  She's  too  much  infected  with  the 
modern  spirit  —  was  always  ready  to  take  —  what 's  the 
girl's  name?  —  Geraldine  —  anywhere  where  there  was  a 
candle  or  a  cutlet,  and  I  hear  she's  taking  out  St.  Jemi- 


346  CHRISTOPHER 

son's  daughter  this  year.  Why  can't  the  woman  sit  still? 
What's  she  like,  by  the  way?" 

"Miss  St.  Jemison?" 

Now  was  it  coming?  Was  this  the  beginning?  He  looked 
up  a  little  startled,  and  borrowed  a  phrase  from  Mrs.  Con- 
staple.  He  had  not  thought  to  hear  himself  asked  to  de- 
scribe Cora,  and  was  not  prepared.  She  was  very  much 
admired,  he  said. 

"So  was  her  mother,"  said  the  old  lady  grimly. 

But  Christopher  saw  that  this  was  not  to  prove,  or  even 
lead  to,  that  which  he  awaited.  There  was  nothing  big 
with  promise  or  warning  in  the  moment,  and  he  breathed 
again. 

"Admired,  is  she?"  said  his  grandmother,  meanwhile. 
"Pretty?  Well,  she'll  need  to  be." 

"Why?"  said  Fatima,  who  wanted  to  know. 

"Because!"  said  her  grandmother-in-law  oracularly. 

But  Christopher,  assured  that  this  was  in  no  way  con- 
nected with  what  he  thought  of  to  himself  as  "moment- 
ous," was  not  to  be  frightened  by  the  prospect  of  a  poten- 
tial tussle.  He  knew  his  grandmother,  and  knew  that  a 
tussle  of  some  sort  must  be  expected.  So  when  she  went 
back  to  the  subject,  as  she  did  presently,  Fatima  not  being 
by,  he  did  not  attach  too  much  importance  to  what  she 
said.  She  talked  more  of  Mrs.  Constaple's  inability  to 
stay  quietly  at  home  than  of  the  girl  the  chaperoning  of 
whom  was  designed  to  cover  it. 

"She'll  die  in  harness,"  she  said.  "She  rackets  about 
from  pillar  to  post  from  morning  till  night.  Always  did. 
She'd  dine  in  the  refreshment-room  at  a  railway  station, 
I  believe,  rather  than  eat  a  meal  at  home.  But  she's  a 
clever  woman  in  her  silly  way.  She  married  her  own  girl 
very  well  with  nothing  particular  to  recommend  her  — 
everything  goes  to  the  sons  in  that  family  —  and  I  dare- 
say she'll  marry  the  St.  Jemison  girl.  He'll  be  a  brave 
man,  for  all  that,  Christopher,  who  marries  her  mother's 
daughter." 


CHRISTOPHER  347 

Christopher  would  have  heard  this  with  difficulty  from 
any  one  else,  but,  coming  from  his  grandmother,  it  was 
allowed  to  pass;  as  was  the  warning  it  contained,  if  indeed 
it  contained  one.  He  did  not  even  say,  "But  she  can't  be 
responsible  for  her  mother";  nor  his  grandmother  the 
"Quite  true,"  with  which  she  would  then  probably  have 
replied,  "The  point  is,  that  what  will  always  be  remem- 
bered is  not  so  much  that,  as  that  her  mother  is  respons- 
ible for  her." 

So  the  matter  dropped. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  Would  it  be  then? 

He  woke  to  a  sense  of  disappointment.  Yet  he  had 
known  that  unless  Cora  had  written  before  starting  (as 
he  had  done),  or  posted  a  letter  at  some  station  on  her 
way  North,  it  was  impossible  that  anything  could  reach 
him  that  morning.  Why,  then,  did  he  look  for  what  was 
not  there?  It  was  some  sort  of  solace  to  him  to  think  of 
her  as  receiving  and  reading  a  letter  from  him. 

His  grandmother  did  not  go  to  church  that  morning, 
but  when  he  and  Fatima  got  back  from  their  walk  to  the 
village,  they  found  her  in  her  pony-chair,  waiting  for  them 
on  the  drive. 

"  I  want  you,  Christopher.  Yes,  Ancebel  can  come  too,  if 
she  cares  to.  Go  on,  Frederick  "  (to  the  groom  at  the  pony's 
head).  "Round  by  the  lake  and  the  kennels.  I've  been 
doing  some  planting,  and  I  want  to  show  you." 

They  started  on  a  tour  of  inspection. 

She  had  done  considerable  planting. 

"And  I've  been  looking  to  my  fences." 

She  had  rebuilt  portions  of  the  park  wall,  and  was 
repairing  her  gates. 

"Now  the  new  cottages." 

"Very  good,  !m." 

"New  cottages?"  said  Christopher. 

His  grandmother  nodded. 

"There's  always  been  a  difficulty  about  housing  the 


348  CHRISTOPHER 

men  on  the  estate  —  the  labourers,  woodmen,  hedgers  and 
ditchers,  and  so  forth.  There  are  practically  no  cottages 
to  be  had  about  here.  We've  always  had  bothers  about 
this  —  even  in  your  grandfather's  time,  when  men  thought 
less  than  they  do  now  of  walking  a  mile  or  two  to  their 
work.  Well,  I  did  n't  see  why  you  should." 
"I,  Grandmother?" 

"Anything  that's  done  now  is  done  for  you,  my  dear." 
He  believed  now  that  it  was  beginning  indeed. 

He  was  sitting  with  her  the  next  evening  in  her  sitting- 
room.  Fatima  and  her  governess  had  just  retired  for  the 
night,  and  the  two  were  alone.  She  had  folded  up  her  work 
and  was  ready  to  make  a  move,  but  had  not  moved;  and 
Christopher  believed  that  she  had  something  to  say. 

"You'll  be  wanting  to  marry  one  of  these  days,"  was 
what  she  said  when  she  spoke,  and  Christopher  gave  a 
little  gasp,  and  knew  that  he  was  to  know  at  last  what  the 
days  had  held  for  him.  She  was  looking  at  the  work  which 
she  held  on  her  knees,  and  did  not  see  the  face  which  he 
turned  towards  her.  She  did  not  look  at  him,  indeed,  for 
a  moment  or  two,  but  continued  to  gaze  at  her  worsteds, 
prodding  them  absently  with  an  ebony  needle,  and  busy, 
it  was  evident,  with  her  thoughts.  "There  was  a  time 
when  I  should  have  cried  out  at  the  suggestion  of  an  early 
marriage  for  any  young  man  with  his  way  to  make.  But 
one  lives  and  unlearns  one's  first  wisdom.  I  need  n't  tell 
you  that  I  've  been  thinking  of  Stephen.  He 's  never  out  of 
my  thoughts  for  very  long.  I've  thought  of  all  that  we 
may  have  done,  or  left  undone,  in  his  case.  Well,  he  thought 
himself  in  love  when  he  was  younger  than  you  are,  and  he 
wanted  to  marry.  Perhaps,  if  his  father  and  I  had  not  ob- 
jected so  successfully,  things  might  not  have  turned  out 
for  him  quite  as  they  did.  We  had  nothing  against  the  girl. 
Our  objection  was  that  he  was  a  boy.  Who  knows?  He 
may  have  known  what  he  needed  —  as  the  dog  that  eats 
I'm  not  likening  you  to  him.  You're  very  differ- 


CHRISTOPHER  349 

ent  from  my  poor  good-for-nothing.  You  Ve  outlets  that 
he  had  n't.  I  can  understand  that.  But  you  're  flesh  and 
blood,  and  I  'm  old  enough,  and  have  been  young  enough, 
to  know  what  those  stand  for,  and  I  don't  want  you  to 
suffer  unnecessarily." 

She  looked  up  now. 

"Have  you  any  one  in  your  mind?"  she  said. 

The  question  was  shot  at  him.  It  took  him  unawares, 
and  so,  though  he  did  not  answer  it,  practically  the  ques- 
tion was  not  unanswered. 

"  I  see.  You  don't  choose  to  tell  me." 

"I  can't,  Grandmother.  If  I  might  choose,  I  should  tell 
you  this  moment.  And,"  he  smiled,  "I  don't  know  that  I 
have  anything  to  tell." 

"Well,  if  she's  decent  — " 

"Grandmother!" 

"If  she's  decent  —  I'll  stick  to  my  word,  if  you 
please  - 

She  was  trying  him  with  it,  he  saw. 

"Well-born  — 

He  made  no  sign. 

"Well-bred—" 

He  managed  to  preserve  his  silence. 

"The  right  wife  for  you,  the  wife  we  should  wish  for 
you,  the  wife  you  should  wish  for  yourself,"  she  tried  him 
with  each  of  these,  —  "if  she's  all  this,  here's  something 
that  you  can  bear  in  mind." 

He  leaned  forward  a  little,  wondering  what  was  coming. 

"My  time  now  may  be  short  or  it  may  be  —  not  long, 
but  prolonged.  Whichever  it  may  please  God  to  make  it, 
I  don't  intend  my  shoes  to  stand  to  you,  Christopher,  for 
dead  men's.  You're  coming  into  Herrickswood  one  day, 
as  you  know.  That 's  no  reason,  as  I  see  things,  why  you 
should  spend  the  best  years  of  your  life  waiting.  So,  other 
things  being  equal,  —  but  being  equal,  mind !  —  your  mar- 
riage need  not  depend  on  my  death.  If  you  can  satisfy 
me  on  certain  general  points,  —  or  she  can,  whoever  she 


350  CHRISTOPHER 

is!  —  it  shall  be  made  possible  for  you  to  marry  whenever 
you  want  to.  There!  I  don't  want  any  thanks,  dear.  It's 
the  purest  selfishness.  I  don't  pretend  —  to  myself  even 
—  that  it 's  anything  else.  Ring  that  bell  for  me  —  twice, 
please,  for  Ollenshaw  —  and  now  good-night  to  you." 

She  paused  at  the  door. 

"You're  off  to-morrow,  I  suppose?" 

"But  not  in  the  morning." 

"Well,  I  must  n't  keep  you  from  her." 

"You're  so  certain  there's  some  one." 

"  If  there  is  n't  there  ought  to  be.  But  quite  certain, 
Christopher.  I  wish  I  was  as  certain  that  I  should  like  her." 

"If  there  should  be  any  one  —  I 'm  not  free  to  tell  you, 
Grandmother,  even  if  I  knew  —  you  would  like  her.  You 
would  n't  be  able  to  help  liking  her." 

He  wanted  to  say  more,  but  might  not;  nor  was  he  quite 
sure  that  it  would  have  been  the  right  moment  to  say  more. 

She  kissed  him,  was  met  by  her  elderly  maid  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs,  and  went  up  to  bed. 

This  was  one  of  the  moments  when  Christopher  felt 
breathless.  He  lost  sight  of  all  misgiving  in  the  joy  of  the 
day's  most  wonderful  bounty.  A  letter,  moreover,  on  the 
Whit  Monday,  as  upon  that  Easter  Sunday  which  he 
would  always  remember,  was  in  the  pocket  over  his  heart. 
A  day  had  withheld,  it  seemed,  that  a  day  might  give  the 
more  lavishly. 

This,  then,  was  why  he  had  not  been  allowed  to  go  to 
Harrogate!  He  had  come  to  Herri ckswood  that  he  might 
hear  what  he  had  just  heard.  Cora,  unconscious  agent  of 
the  powers  which  watched  over  him,  had  sent  him  from 
her  that  he  might  be  brought  the  more  surely  to  her.  For 
now  he  could  go  to  her  and  ask  for  her  answer.  Now 
nothing  hindered.  By  that  time  to-morrow  Cora  would  be 
engaged  to  him.  A  few  hours  more,  just  a  few  hours 
more  . 


CHAPTER  XIX 

HE  himself  was  infected  now  with  the  spirit  of  haste  by 
which  he  conceived  the  movement  of  his  affairs  to  be  in- 
spired, and,  though  he  had  spoken  of  an  afternoon  train, 
he  went  back  to  London  by  a  morning  one.  His  grand- 
mother, as  in  like  circumstances  his  mother  before  her, 
made  no  comment.  She  saw  him  go,  if  not  unregretfully, 
at  least  cheerfully,  and  rallied  the  protesting  Fatima  upon 
her  lack  of  a  similar  ability  to  take  things  as  they  came. 

"It's  taking  things  as  they  go,  I  think,"  said  Fatima. 
"He  said  after  luncheon!  He  was  to  have  come  for  a  ride 
this  morning.  And  he  goes  and  leaves  before  ten!  He's 
always  going  away  from  one  —  always." 

"  Then  he  must  always  be  coming  to  you,  my  dear.  A  per- 
son can't  go  away  from  you  if  he  has  n't  been  with  you." 

"Oh,  for  two  or  three  days  —  like  this.  Can't  men  ever 
be  contented?  Can't  you  ever  keep  them  with  you?" 

"Only  by  letting  them  go,"  said  Christopher's  grand- 
mother. 

The  subject  of  their  discussion,  meanwhile,  was  being 
hurried  back  to  London  as  fast  as  the  quickest  train  of  the 
day  could  take  him.  He  had  bought  an  A  B  C  at  the  sta- 
tion, and  this  he  studied  when  he  was  not  sitting  forward  in 
his  seat  as  if  to  urge  the  train  on,  or  moving  restlessly  in 
his  compartment,  which  happily  held  no  one  but  himself. 
He  could  not  have  borne,  just  then,  the  presence  of  other 
travellers.  He  looked  out  of  the  windows.  The  train  could 
not  go  quickly  enough  for  him.  He  urged  it  onward  and 
onward,  and  every  time  that  he  relaxed  his  muscles,  he 
came  back  to  the  study  of  the  time-table. 

He  was  to  see  Cora  at  the  opera  that  evening,  where  he 


352  CHRISTOPHER 

was  to  join  Mrs.  Constaple  in  her  box,  but  he  was  impatient 
of  even  so  much  delay,  and  he  had  determined  to  meet  all 
the  afternoon  trains  in  from  Harrogate  on  the  chance  of 
finding  her  in  one  of  them.  There  was  more  than  one  route 
open  to  her,  but  she  had  travelled  up  by  the  Midland  line, 
he  knew,  and  he  thought  it  probable  that  she  would  come 
back  the  same  way.  Arrived  at  Victoria,  then,  he  sent  his 
luggage  on  to  Cloisters  Street,  and  made  for  St.  Pancras. 

One  train  he  had  missed,  but  as  this  one  started  very 
early  it  was  unlikely  that  she  had  come  by  it.  He  had  time 
for  some  lunch  before  the  next.  He  ate  standing,  and  was 
on  the  platform  twenty  minutes  before  it  was  due. 

It  came  in  bravely.  He  watched  it  forge  its  way  towards 
him  to  its  appointed  place.  In  a  moment  it  had  thrown 
open  its  doors  and  was  disgorging  its  passengers. 

Christopher,  peering  into  every  carriage,  walked  the 
length  of  it.  He  doubled  back,  raked  the  crowd  with  eager 
eyes,  inserted  himself  into  the  groups  gathering  about  the 
luggage  vans ;  saw  every  soul  leave  the  train. 

There  was  an  interval  of  two  hours  before  the  next,  but 
that  did  not  daunt  him.  He  could  always  interest  himself 
in  streets,  and  he  explored  the  neighbourhood  —  south- 
ward as  far  as  Clerkenwell  Green,  passing  and  pausing  in 
front  of  the  old  Sadlers  Wells  Theatre,  whither,  in  the  days 
of  it,  all  London  had  journeyed  to  see  the  actor  of  the  mo- 
ment; northward,  past  the  Angel,  into  Islington;  thence, 
by  Copenhagen  Street  and  Caledonian  Road,  back  through 
Pentonville. 

He  was  at  the  station  again  half  an  hour  too  soon. 

He  saw  his  second  train  come  in.  But  neither  was  Cora 
in  this.  As  before,  he  searched  from  end  to  end,  and  from 
the  first  opening  of  the  doors  to  the  moment  when  the 
porters  collected  the  newspapers.  It  was  possible,  of  course, 
that  in  the  crowd  he  might  have  overlooked  her,  but  he  did 
not  think  that  he  had  done  so,  and  he  set  himself  to  wait 
for  the  next.  The  third  train  that  he  met  would  bring  her. 

He  set  his  face  towards  the  third  train. 


CHRISTOPHER  353 

The  last  of  the  passengers,  those  who  had  been  late  in 
finding  their  luggage,  or  in  securing  porters,  or  who,  for 
what  other  cause  that  may  delay  the  arriving  traveller, 
had  been  delayed,  were  leaving  the  platform.  Christopher, 
overtaking  the  procession  of  these,  became  aware  suddenly 
of  a  figure  amongst  them  which  was  familiar  to  him.  He 
knew  that  strong,  well-built  form.  For  no  reason  that  he 
could  have  put  into  words,  he  wished  that  the  man  in  front 
of  him  had  been  any  other  in  the  world  than  Heccadon. 

But  he  would  not  let  the  chance  sight  of  this  man  affect 
him.  What  was  he  to  —  Heccadon,  or  Heccadon  to  him, 
that  a  reminder  of  his  existence  should  threaten  even  to 
damp  his  excitement?  The  thing  should  not  be!  He  would 
not  remember  what  he  had  put  resolutely  from  him.  With 
Cora's  letter  over  his  heart,  he  would  not!  With  what  he 
had  to  tell  her  burning  within  him  to  be  told,  he  would  not! 
Everything  was  bringing  him  to  Cora;  everything  bring- 
ing Cora  to  him.  Nothing  should  dash  his  hopes  in  these 
charged  and  hurrying  hours. 

He  saw  Heccadon  get  into  his  waiting  hansom  and  drive 
off. 

He  drew  a  long  breath.  That  was  over.  He  pushed  it 
from  him  .  .  . 

His  excitement  increased  now.  Was  there  a  thought 
under  it,  a  suspicion,  a  deadly  fear — something  that  he 
would  not  face? 

How  he  hated  this  man!  He  did  not  know  that  he  had 
ever  hated  any  one  as  he  hated  him.  He  did  not  know 
that  he  hated  any  one  else  at  all.  But,  again,  away  with 
all  thought  of  him! 

This  was  the  shortest  of  the  three  waits;  he  found  it  the 
longest.  Strive  as  he  would,  he  could  not  keep  the  thought 
of  the  man  wholly  out  of  his  mind.  Why,  on  this  day  of  all 
days,  must  Heccadon  obtrude  himself  upon  his  conscious- 


354  CHRISTOPHER 

ness?  The  handsome  cynical  face  and  the  strong  shapely 
figure  forced  themselves  upon  his  recollection.  Something 
that  Cora  had  said  of  him,  too,  would  not  be  forgotten.  He 
had  not  known  at  the  moment  who  it  was  that  she  was 
speaking  of,  but  he  had  known  that,  even  in  his  ignorance, 
her  words  had  the  power  to  hurt  him.  What  she  had  said 
was  true  in  its  horrible  way.  If  Christopher,  who  hated 
Heccadon,  could  believe  that  it  was  true,  it  must  be. 
Heccadon  was  the  more  dangerous. 

He  could  not  fill  up  the  interval  between  the  trains !  He 
walked  away  from  the  station,  and,  unable  to  trust  him- 
self out  of  sight  of  it,  or  to  trust  it  out  of  his  sight,  was  back 
at  its  gates  in  half  an  hour.  He  started  out  afresh,  and  again 
returned  like  the  dove  to  the  ark.  He,  too,  could  find  else- 
where no  rest  for  the  sole  of  his  foot.  So,  chafing,  he  counted 
the  minutes.  Before,  he  had  enjoyed  the  suspense  of  the 
waiting.  Now  waiting  seemed  intolerable. 

The  counted  minutes  dragged  by.  Presently  he  learned 
that  the  train  would  even  be  late.  He  questioned  the  por- 
ters, who  began  now  to  be  aware  of  him,  and  to  comment 
upon  him  amongst  themselves. 

The  train  was  a  quarter  of  an  hour  overdue  when  at  last 
it  came  in.  But  it  brought  Cora.  The  carriage  which  held 
her  stopped  almost  opposite  to  where  he  was  standing. 

He  saw  her  before  she  saw  him.  She  was  scanning  the 
prople  on  the  platform,  almost,  he  thought,  as  if  she  had 
expected  that  there  might  be  some  one  to  meet  her.  Well, 
there  was.  He  slipped  over  to  her  and  appeared  to  her  — 
—  saw  himself  appear  to  her  —  as  she  twice  had  appeared 
to  him,  suddenly,  but  gradually  also. 

She  looked  for  a  moment  as  if  she  doubted  her  eyes. 

"Christopher?"  she  said.  "You?"  —  as  if  she  might 
be  saying,  "Are  you  sure?"  and  then  smiled. 

"You  came  up  out  of  the  ground,"  she  said.  She  seemed 
to  be  explaining. 

"I  thought  I'd  meet  you.  I  was  sure  you'd  come  by 
this  train." 


CHRISTOPHER  355 

"I  nearly  did  n't,"  she  said,  but  he  became  conscious 
at  this  moment  of  the  presence  of  her  maid  in  the  carriage 
behind  her,  and  he  did  not,  at  the  time,  notice  these  words 
as  they  fell  from  her.  He  helped  her  to  alight  and  waited 
to  speak  again  till  her  maid  should  be  gone  for  her  luggage. 

Cora,  following  her  with  her  eyes,  outstripped  her,  and 
then  looked  along  the  platform  in  the  other  direction.  This 
he  did  notice,  without  attaching  any  significance  to  it. 

"  I  could  n't  wait  till  to-night,"  he  was  saying.  "  I  wanted 
to  see  you  so  desperately,  and  I  've  something  to  tell  you. 
Something 's  happened . ' ' 

Her  eyes  came  back  to  him  at  that. 

"Oh,  nothing  bad.  Something  that  may  be  very  good; 
that  may  make  a  difference.  Cora,  are  you  glad  to  see  me? 
It's  three  days  —  more  than  three  days  since  we  saw  each 
other.  I  don't  know,  now  that  I  see  you  again,  how  I  've 
got  through  them." 

Her  eyes  were  not  wandering  now. 

"There  hasn't  been  a  moment  in  them  when  you've 
been  out  of  my  thoughts." 

"What  have  you  to  tell  me?"  she  said. 

"I  can't  tell  you  here.  We  can't  talk  in  this  crowd.  I 
forgot  about  your  maid.  I  thought  I'd  drive  you  to 
Grosvenor  Street,  or  anyway  drive  with  you  part  of  the 
way.  Yes,  and  that 's  still  what  I  must  do.  I  'm  going  to 
tell  your  maid  to  follow  with  your  things." 

He  did  not  wait  for  permission,  but  was  hurrying  away 
when  she  called  him. 

"Stay,"  she  said.  "  I  '11  speak  to  her."  But  she  seemed 
to  hesitate. 

"Mrs.  Constaple  would  n't  mind?  You're  not  thinking 
of  that!" 

"Oh,  she  would  n't  mind.   I  should  probably  tell  her." 

"What  is  it,  then?  Is  it  —  ?"  he  looked  in  the  direction 
of  her  maid.  " Is  n't  she  to  be  trusted?" 

"Robson?  Oh,  she's  all  right." 

"Then,  tell  her.   I'll  get  a  hansom." 


356  CHRISTOPHER 

Cora  looked  up  and  down  the  platform  again. 
"Very  well,"  she  said,  after  a  moment. 

When  she  joined  him,  a  couple  of  minutes  later,  all 
trace  of  hesitation  had  vanished. 

They  got  into  the  hansom,  and  he  gave  the  driver  the 
address. 

Now  was  his  waiting  rewarded!  Now  might  time  be 
stayed !  Now  might  distance  prolong  itself ! 

"Oh,  Cora ! "  he  said,  when  at  last  he  found  himself  alone 
with  her.  "Oh,  Cora  .  .  ." 

Her  hand  was  lying  in  her  lap.  He  put  his  hand  over  it. 
She  did  not  draw  it  away. 

"Do  you  care  so  much?"  she  said. 

"More  than  I  can  tell  you.  More  than  you  could  know 
if  I  were  able  to  tell  you.  I  've  never  been  quite  alone  with 
you  before.  I  've  never  been  so  near  to  you  before.  Have 
you  seen  how  I  've  kept  myself  from  you?  I  've  never  held 
your  hand  as  I  'm  holding  it  now.  There  have  been  times 
when  I  could  have  cried  out  ..." 

He  broke  off  and  looked  from  the  hand  which  he  clasped 
in  his  to  her  face. 

"I've  never  kissed  you,"  he  said. 

There  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 

They  drove  for  some  yards  in  silence.  They  were  out 
of  the  open  road  now,  and  in  the  noise  of  streets.  Here 
every  second  house  was  a  boarding-house.  Through  dining- 
room  windows  you  might  see  dreary  tables  laid  for  dinner. 
Christopher  saw  that  they  were  dreary  and  looked  away 
from  them  quickly. 

Cora  laid  her  other  hand  for  one  moment  on  his  hand. 

"Oh,  I  wish — "  she  began,  but  she  did  not  say  what 
it  was  that  she  wished. 

He  remembered  her  action  and  her  words  afterwards. 

"/  wish,"  was  what  he  said  then. 

"Yes,  Christopher?" 

It  was  so  wonderful  when  she  called  him  by  his  name. 


CHRISTOPHER  357 

"That  I  could  be  sure  of  something." 

"Say  it." 

"You've  never  told  me  that  you  care  for  me.  Never 
in  words.  Can  you,  Cora?  Oh,  if  I  could  make  you  know." 

"  You  do  make  me  know.  That 'sit.  You  make  me  know 
so  extraordinarily.  If  you  were  like  other  people  I  should 
know  what  to  say  to  you.  I  'm  half  afraid  of  you." 

"Afraid  of  me?" 

"Because  I'm  not  a  bit  what  you  think  me." 

"You  don't  see  me  as  I  really  am,"  she  continued  after 
a  moment's  pause.  "You  see  some  one  that  you  create, 
yourself  —  not  me  at  all." 

"How  can  that  be?" 

"I  don't  know.    It  just  is,"  said  Cora. 

A  few  more  of  the  precious  yards  were  driven  in  silence. 

"What  have  you  to  tell  me?"  she  asked  then. 

They  seemed  to  have  lost  sight  of  what  it  was  that  had 
brought  him  to  meet  her. 

He  told  her  of  the  talk  with  his  grandmother.  Words 
tripped  themselves  up  on  his  tongue  in  his  eagerness. 

"She  promises  me  Herri ckswood,"  he  said,  "and  tells 
me  that  I  need  n't  wait." 

Oxford  Circus!  They  were  getting  so  near  now.  Five 
minutes  would  see  them  at  their  destination.  The  pace 
was  dreadful.  Yet  it  seemed  of  a  piece  with  that  at  which 
everything,  just  then,  appeared  to  be  moving  for  him. 

"I  'm  going  to  tell  him  to  drive  round  by  Park  Lane," 
Christopher  said  shortly. 

"Robson  will  be  home  before  we  are." 

"  I  can't  help  that.    I  'm  going  to  tell  him." 

"Very  well,"  said  Cora,  as  before. 

He  gave  his  directions  through  the  trap. 

They  had  ten  minutes  more. 

As  they  passed  the  top  of  Bond  Street,  Christopher  was 
saying,  "Cora,  do  you  care  for  me?  Once  for  all,  do  you 
care  for  me?" 


358  CHRISTOPHER 

At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  Cora  was  gaining  time 
with  "Should  I  be  here  if  I  did  n't?" 

Then  a  small  thing  happened. 

A  hansom  turned  out  of  South  Molton  Street,  and  in  the 
press  of  the  traffic  was  held  up  for  a  moment  beside  theirs. 
Its  occupant,  a  man,  any  man,  a  stranger,  looking  at 
Christopher's  companion,  looked  again.  That  was  all. 
But  it  was  enough.  The  blood  went  with  a  rush  to  Christ- 
opher's head.  He  turned  on  her  choking  with  passion. 

"People  look  at  you,"  he  said  in  a  strangled  voice. 
"Men  —  in  the  street  —  and  you  let  them." 

"How  can  I  prevent  them?" 

"You  don't  want  to  prevent  them.  You  want  them  to 
look  at  you.  You  mean  them  to  look  at  you." 

Something  in  the  words  as  he  spoke  them  arrested  him. 
Recently,  quite,  quite  recently,  he  had  heard  words  like 
these.  In  a  moment  Mrs.  Heccadon's  rag  of  a  face  had 
risen  before  him,  but  its  eyes  were  burning  now  with  ac- 
cusing fires,  and  he  heard,  not  a  sweet,  husky  voice  singing 
love-songs,  but  a  voice  strangled  like  his  own,  made  husky, 
made  dreadful  with  passion. 

"Heccadon,"  he  heard  himself  saying,  "Heccadon!" 
and  saw  her  look  at  him.  But  he  saw  more  than  this,  and 
heard  more  than  his  own  voice  and  the  husky  voice  of  the 
singer. 

For  without  warning  (though  presaged  by  who  should 
say  what  processes  of  unconscious  thought,  what  things 
noted  and  unnoted,  what  misgivings  and  apprehensions 
and  doubts?)  the  gates  had  been  rolled  back  and  there 
was  again  for  him  one  of  those  sudden  open  hours 
such  as,  on  the  night  following  his  first  vision  of  Cora, 
had  laid  bare  to  him  all  that  was  happening  in  monstrous 
London  —  one  of  the  open  hours  in  which,  sight  and  hear- 
ing miraculously  cleared,  he  knew  that  he  saw  and  heard 
true !  Through  a  mist,  as  it  were,  or  as  in  a  glass  darkly,  he 
now  saw  Cora  searching  the  platform  as  he  himself  had 
searched  it,  and  saw  again  her  look  of  surprise  as  her 


CHRISTOPHER  359 

doubting  eyes  realised  first  his  presence  and  then  his  iden- 
tity ;  perceived  her  hesitation ;  heard  the  three  words  which, 
falling  from  her,  had  at  the  time  escaped  his  notice.  And, 
bis  eyes  and  ears  opened,  that  seeing  he  should  see  and 
understand,  and  hearing  he  should  hear  and  interpret,  he 
saw  his  mother  and  knew  why  he  could  not  see  Cora  beside 
her;  saw  his  grandmother  and  heard,  as  if  for  the  first 
time,  her  proviso  with  her  promise,  —  even  to  the  word 
which  she  used  and  chose  to  stick  to.  "If  she's  .  .  ."  He 
had  shut  his  ears  to  it  then.  "If  she's  .  .  ."  And  she 
wasn't!  In  this  most  terrible  of  "open"  moments  he 
knew  that  she  was  n't. 

"Heccadon's  been  at  Harrogate,"  he  said,  — "Hecca- 
don!  That's  why  you  would  n't  let  me  go  there  with  you. 
I  met  three  trains  to-day  for  the  sight  of  you,  and  I  saw 
him  at  the  station.  You  missed  the  one  he  came  by  or  I 
should  have  seen  you  together.  Heccadon.  Heccadon. 
Heccadon." 

It  was  Cora,  now,  that  he  could  not  drive  with  —  Cora 
whom  he  loved,  for  Heccadon  whom  he  hated!  He  started 
up  just  as  he  had  done  before,  and,  the  impulse  as  suddenly 
leaving  him,  her  stillness  perhaps  restraining  him,  sank 
back  as  before  into  his  seat. 

She  made  no  attempt  to  deny  what  he  said ,  but  her  silence 
was  not  the  silence  of  one  who  disdains  to  answer.  She  ad- 
mitted, without  anger  because  without  shame,  and  with- 
out shame  because  —  he  saw  it  now  —  she  was  without 
love  for  him. 

"He's  not  worth  your  little  finger,"  she  said  presently 
and  very  gently;  "not  fit  to  black  your  boots  for  you.  I 
know  that.  But  he 's  —  well,  he 's  himself,  and  I  'm  myself, 
and  we  understand  each  other." 

"I  don't  understand  anything,"  said  Christopher,  "ex- 
cept that  you  seem  to  be  telling  me  that  you  're  not  —  not 
You"  He  passed  over  what  he  could  not  allow  himself  to 
believe  that  she  was  telling  him.  "  Is  that  what  you  mean 
to  tell  me  —  what  you  mean  me  to  understand?" 


36o  CHRISTOPHER 

"It's  better  that  you  should  understand.  I'm  not, 
Christopher."  Again  by  the  use  of  his  name  she  wrung 
his  heart.  "  I  've  always  known  that  I  was  n't.  I  've  wanted 
to  think  that  I  was,  that's  all.  And  neither  are  you  meant 
for  me.  You  've  something  —  some  odd  power.  You  got 
your  message  through  to  me  —  whatever  it  was  —  to 
Brussels,  so  you  must  have.  But  if  he  called  to  me  .  .  .  ! 
Don't  be  afraid.  He  won't,  and  I  should  n't  lose  my  head 
if  he  did.  I  was  born  later,  you  see,  than  poor  mother.  But 
if  he  did  ..."  She  closed  her  eyes  for  a  moment  and  lay 
back  in  the  hansom.  She  said  all  this  without  shame.  There 
was  something  that  was  not  ignoble  in  her  frankness. 

"Mrs.  Heccadon?"  he  forced  himself  to  say. 

"Margot?  She  understands  each  of  us.  She  under- 
stands herself,  too.  She  is  one  of  the  people  who  are  born 
to  pay." 

"As  I  am  not,"  she  added  after  a  moment;  and  he  knew 
that  she  was  right. 

This  was  the  end.  The  ten  minutes  by  which  he  had  ex- 
tended the  drive  had  done  for  him.  He  no  longer  wanted  to 
get  out  of  the  hansom,  but  he  was  conscious,  under  what  he 
said  or  heard,  of  straining  towards  the  moment  when  it 
should  reach  Mrs.  Constaple's,  and  he  should  be  alone. 

They  talked  on  in  the  few  minutes  that  remained.  Cora 
spoke  again  of  her  mother.  Christopher  remembered  how 
he  once  had  nearly  spoken  of  her,  and  could  have  laughed. 
She  spoke  of  his  stepfather.  He  remembered,  with  a  mo- 
mentary feeling  of  resentment  against  John  Hemming, 
how  he  himself  had  nearly  spoken  of  him  —  as  a  link  be- 
tween them! 

"You  knew?"  he  said  under  his  breath. 

"Christopher!"  She  leant  forward  to  look  at  him. 
"You  didn't  suppose  that  I  didn't?  You  can't  have 
thought  that?  You  can't  suppose  I  don't  know?" 

"I  think  I  hoped  you  mightn't  know  everything,"  he 
said. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  thought  I  could  escape  knowing? 


CHRISTOPHER  361 

I  Ve  had  to  know.  I  don't  blame  any  one  particularly  — 
least  of  all,  my  mother.  I'm  very  good  friends  with  her. 
I  'm  very  good  friends  with  her  husband,  who  is  my  step- 
father, I  suppose.  I  've  been  quite  good  friends  with  others 
of  my  —  my  stepfathers." 

"But  your  father,"  said  Christopher.  Was  there  no  one 
to  watch  over  her? 

"Oh,  he  does  n't  trouble  himself.  I  daresay  he  knows. 
It 's  all  unfair  enough,  anyway.  He  got  the  custody  of  me." 

That  put  a  finger  on  Christopher's  childhood!  That, 
whirling  him  back  to  the  moment  when  he  had  first  heard 
of  her,  almost  wrung  a  cry  from  him.  Everything  did  seem 
linked  with  everything  else,  and,  as  she  slipped  from  him, 
all  his  life,  all  the  things  in  his  life,  all  his  thoughts  and 
hopes  and  ambitions,  to  have  been,  nay,  to  be,  bound  up 
with  her. 

"What  shall  I  do  without  you?"  he  said. 

"Do  you  think  I  shan't  miss  you,  Christopher?" 

They  were  turning  into  Grosvenor  Street  now.  With  a 
rush  which  overwhelmed  him  there  came  upon  him  a  sense 
of  what  it  was  that  had  happened.  Ages  seemed  to  have 
passed  between  the  beginning  of  this  momentous  drive 
and  its  dreadful  finish. 

"Cora,  I  can't  give  you  up.  You're  everything  to  me. 
It  will  be  like  tearing  out  my  heart  if  I  lose  you." 

She  was  wiser  than  he. 

"You  would  never  have  been  allowed  to  marry  me.  Do 
you  think  I  should  ever  have  been  admitted  to  Herricks- 
wood?  I  think  what  you  told  me  to-day  —  what  Mrs.  Her- 
rick  said  about  leaving  you  free  to  marry  whom  you  liked 
—  would  have  brought  that  home  to  me.  You  would  have 
been  cut  out  of  Herrickswood,  Christopher." 

He  knew  it,  even  as  she  spoke;  and  wondered  that  he 
had  not  known  it  all  along. 

"I  could  have  faced  that,"  he  said. 

"  I  know.  But  it  would  have  been  foolish,  and  it  would 
have  been  useless.  We're  not  for  each  other.  If  there's 


362  CHRISTOPHER 

anything  that  I  know  at  this  moment,  it's  that.  We're 
each  of  us  just  the  one  person  in  the  world  who  is  not  for 
the  other.  It  is  n't  quite  all  one  way,  either.  You  would  n't 
be  allowed  to  marry  me,  but  —  think  this  out,  Christo- 
pher! —  I  should  n't  be  allowed  to  marry  you.  We  did  n't 
make  the  tangle;  the  tangle's  there,  all  the  same." 

"  I  'm  the  only  one  caught  in  it.  I  shall  never  be  free  any 
more." 

"You'll  be  freer  than  you've  ever  been,"  Cora  said.  " I 
believe  I  'm  hundreds  of  years  older  than  you,  and  I  know. 
All  sorts  of  things  that  are  in  you  will  be  free.  Things 
imprisoned  —  but  they  won't  be  always.  No  one  will  ever 
know,  but  some  day  it  will  be  to  me  —  if  they  could  know 
it  —  that  people  will  owe  their  gratitude,  for  you,  Christo- 
pher." 

He  had  thought  that  she  was  not  feeling  anything,  but 
he  was  wrong. 

The  house  was  in  sight  now. 

"  I  can't  go  to  —  to  the  opera  to-night.  You  '11  tell  Mrs. 
Constaple." 

She  nodded. 

"Nor  the  things  next  week." 

"All  right,  Christopher.  I'll  tell  her.  I  — I  shan't  go 
myself." 

"Cora." 

"Yes." 

"You  were  going  to  meet  him  the  day  you  met  me." 

There  was  the  briefest  pause. 

Then:  "Yes,  Christopher." 

The  tears  were  streaming  down  her  face  now,  as  his 
tears  were  streaming  down  his.  The  hansom  drew  up  at 
the  door.  It  was  the  very  end.  The  boy  and  the  girl,  care- 
less of  whether  they  were  seen  or  not,  drew  together  and 
kissed,  their  tears  mingling. 

So  it  came  that  Christopher's  rooms  in  Cloisters  Street 
were  Christopher's  Gethsemane  that  night.  To  his  young 


CHRISTOPHER  363 

agony,  none  the  less  real  because  it  was  very  young,  it  was 
fitting  that  only  the  understanding  walls  and  windows 
should  be  witness.  One  person  only  was  to  guess  at  it. 
This  was  John  Hemming,  who,  advised  by  a  surprising 
letter  from  Cora  herself,  came  to  see  his  stepson  at  once, 
and  was  stricken  rather  than  struck  by  his  appearance. 

"Nothing  that  you  can  tell  me?" 

"No,  John." 

"Christopher,  you  won't  hate  me  —  God  forgive  me,  I 
believe  I 'm  in  this  —  you  don't  hate  me?" 

"No,  John,  of  course  not.  And  you're  not  in  it.  No  one 
is  but  she  and  I.  There's  nothing  that  you  could  have 
helped  —  nothing  that  any  one  could.  What  I  wished 
could  n't  be,  I  see  that  already." 

"That  you  should  have  fixed  upon  her!  —  of  all  the  girls 
in  the  world!" 

"  Don't  let  my  mother  know,"  said  Christopher.  "Some 
day  I  may  tell  her." 

But  he  did  n't  tell  her  then.  Nor  —  though  he  knew 
that  she  waited  for  news  —  did  he  tell  his  grandmother. 
She  heard  sooner  or  later  from  Mrs.  Constaple;  and  it  was 
as  well ,  perhaps,  that  he  did  not  hear  what  she  said.  What 
she  said,  mark,  for  she  too  loved  Christopher.  If  Cora  had 
loved  him,  who  knows  but  that  he  would  have  won  Cora 
with  Herrickswood? 

But  Cora  St.  Jemison  did  not  love  Christopher,  and,  in 
the  scheme  of  his  life,  her  mission  was  not  to  crown  his 
love.  She  was  in  the  scheme  of  it,  for  all  that,  as  love  was 
in  the  scheme  of  it,  and  sorrow,  with  rich  compensations 
for  sorrow:  it  was  love-crowned,  perhaps,  —  such  love,  any- 
way, as  that  which  had  possessed  or  even  obsessed  him,  — 
which  was  not.  Her  mission  was  not-to-love  Christopher. 

He  had  been  wrong  then?  She  was  not  That  One  to 
whom  the  eternal  question  had  been  addressed  —  not  the 
chosen  companion  who  somewhen,  as  he  had  supposed, 
had  travelled  or  was  to  travel  beside  him?  Climbing  the 
years  —  from  Boulogne  to  London  —  he  had  been  under 


364  CHRISTOPHER 

a  delusion?  He  was  to  know,  maybe,  that  he  had  been 
under  a  delusion.  He  was  to  know  beyond  all  doubt,  if  so, 
that  the  delusion  itself  had  been  divine.  Before  this  con- 
summation, some  suffering,  perhaps.  What  of  that?  Could 
such  knowledge  come  otherwise  than  by  suffering? 

Therefore  let  no  one  say  that  this  book  of  him  "ends 
badly"!  The  book  of  Christopher  ends  happily.  He  was 
to  come  by  his  voice,  it  is  true,  as  the  wife  of  Heccadon 
had  come  by  hers.  That  the  dumb  should  speak  —  is  not 
that  to  end  happily?  His  mother,  perhaps,  wishing  for 
grandchildren  rather  than  books,  was  to  wonder ;  Trimmer, 
perhaps  (childless  for  the  sake  of  him !) ;  no  one  else. 

So,  Cloisters  Street,  which  in  some  sort  was  also  Bou- 
logne to  him,  before  it  went  the  way  of  all  the  beautiful 
old  streets  in  the  changing  town  —  before  the  ruthless 
demolishment,  that  is  (some  ten  years  later),  of  what  could 
never  be  replaced  —  was  to  see  considerably  more  of  him 
than  his  agony.  It  was  to  witness  the  neglected  ink-bottle 
finding  its  voice  again,  and  to  see  Christopher,  the  wings 
sprouting  on  his  pen  as  he  listened,  able  once  more  to  hear 
it;  it  was  to  see  the  releasing  of  all  the  imprisoned  things 
from  the  Boulogne  to  the  London  days,  from  even  before 
the  Boulogne  days,  —  the  Cheltenham  days,  the  Ebury 
Street  days,  —  who  is  to  gainsay  it?  —  the  days  on  board 
ship,  the  very  pre-natal  days.  It  was  to  see  Christopher, 
in  fine,  learn  at  length  to  express  himself. 

Happy?  Unhappy?  Happy  —  and  by  reason  of  Cora, 
worthless  Cora,  daughter  of  the  Mrs.  St.  Jemison  who  could 
not  be  called  upon,  but  also  the  White  Girl  of  Christo- 
pher's adoration,  and  the  You,  yes,  when  all's  said,  and  in 
howsoever  different  a  sense  from  any  contemplated  by  the 
seeker,  the  You,  the  ultimate  You  of  his  conscious  and  un- 
conscious seeking. 


THE  END 


s" 


A     000  028  562 


